Night Witches
by Panzerfaust 150
Summary: AU Story of Daria and Jane become an F-111 crew set in the turbulent times of Sir John Hackett's novels "Third World War: August 1985" and "The Third World War: The Untold Story".
1. Prologue

Author's Note

The story you are about to read is something that's been a long time coming. I was a child of the 1980s. And not just any child. I spent 1981-1983 as a service dependent at Naval Air Station Rota, Spain. It is something of a memory I cherish. But one I also realize made me in some very small way, a part of that 40 year long showdown between the superpowers. We _expected_ the Russians to come. And we figured the first warning we'd get was when either a) Soviet Spetsnaz (Special Forces) hit various targets around the base or b) a Soviet SS-20 detonated its three warheads over the runway of the airfield.

As I grew older, I was in some ways, looking forward to "having my turn" at keeping the Russians on their side of the Inter German Border. I had decided on a career in the Army as a teenager, having been unduly influenced by _Team Yankee _and stories from my grandfather's war as a Cav scout driving across France, Germany and Czechoslovakia. But before I got "my turn"? The Soviets threw in the towel. We had simply spent them into the ground.

Is it a better world because we did? Yes. For forty years both sides were on high alert, probing each other on their frontiers, looking for signs that either was about to strike. Both the United States and the Soviet Union had been hit by surprise and suffered grievously for it in the past war. Neither was keen to let it happen again. In the nuclear age, whoever got off the first shot had a devastating advantage.

The Soviet Union was at a crossroads in the 1980s. She was in a ruinous war in Afghanistan. Her defense spending absorbed some 10-15% of her GDP and the weapons only got more expensive in an attempt to keep up with the technological superiority of the west. By 1983, a nuclear exercise by NATO, known as Able Archer had convinced the Soviets the west, was in fact, planning a nuclear war. Happily for all involved, one Mikhail S. Gorbachev came along, and he got along with Ronald and Margret and managed to help end the Cold War.

But what if it hadn't? It's a question that is asked often and now with the Soviet side declassified for the most part? One can ask these questions with some modicum of certainty. But not absolute. And for that, we can be thankful. We can be thankful to the military professionals on both sides for doing their job and preventing war. It was a credit to all of them that war did not occur.

But the question was asked during the Cold War. Movies like Red Dawn, Books like Third World War: August 1985, Team Yankee, and others and Games like Twilight 2000 and NATO all asked the question: What would it be like, and who would win?

Meanwhile, in the 1990s, MTV released a cartoon about a disaffected young high schooler named Daria. I related. High School had been an unmitigated hell for me. As I grew up, got married, got divorced and took stock, I found the rich Daria fanbase, and an idea grew in my head. My own way of telling the story of a Third World War between the superpowers and writing about a war that, thank god, never happened.

Be warned, this will be a rough ride. Some of the people Daria and Jane will meet will end up dying in ways that aren't pretty or pleasant. They will be in the world of military aviation, which is always been a dichotomy between disciplined action and "drink, eat, and be merry, for tomorrow, they may not be able to tell us from what's left of the aircraft."

I couldn't do this story without the help of Matt Wiser. He's a good friend, and a fellow Cold War Kid. He wanted to be an A-6 B/N but the Cold War's demise did in his plans too. His cousin and girlfriend are military aviators (No, I won't answer details) and have helped immensely with this manuscript. Their opinions are solely their own, and not the Department of Defense or any branches of the armed services.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Somewhere over North-Central New Mexico_

_0235 MST/0935 ZULU_

_Saturday, December 29__th__, 1984_

_F-111D 68-0807 of the 4427th Tactical Fighter Replacement Squadron_

The twin turbofans of the twin TF-30P-9 engines roared through the night sky of the featureless New Mexican desert, the sound of the aircraft arriving before the aircraft did as it roared by, barely 200 to 300 feet off the ground, it's Terrain Following Radar, or TFR for short, set to "hard" to get the maximum terrain masking effect. Hard referred to the ride the perceived ride would be, and the autopilot tied into the TFR did not disappoint.

In the cockpit, two professionals, barely out of their flight schools and on the cusp of their final exam reexamined their cockpit settings, while keeping one eye out for any unknown obstructions such as power lines that didn't have a appreciable radar return. Many students had been killed over the years by what was euphemistically called by many in military aviation called CFIT, or Controlled Flight Into Terrain.

1st Lieutenant Daria Morgendorffer was simply trying to concentrate on flying the aircraft in the inky black, and hoping to Christ she didn't experience the joys of CFIT, or more embarrassingly, having to recycle on their final exam. She chanced a glance at her WSO, or "wisso" as they were colloquially known, 1st Lieutenant Jane Lane and mused _Two more unlikely Air Force officers are we. Ah shit, Morgendorffer, concentrate on flying the goddamned airplane. _

Neither pilot nor WSO could see the other's face, let alone their head underneath their helmets, oxygen masks and visors, and even if they could, it wouldn't be something they'd be paying much attention to. Both pilot and WSO were coated in a slick sheen of sweat, and were so focused on their tasks, neither had had time for any sort of banter, let alone any kind of reminiscing about "good ol' Lawndale".

Daria was doing all she could not to grab the damn stick and climb for altitude, but the fact was, the autopilot was tied into the TFR, and it was giving them a ride reminiscent of a bucking bronco machine Daria had once encountered during her days at the 'Springs. The tired old F-111 shimmied, groaned and some small bangs occasionally towards the rear of the aircraft. It had unnerved both pilot and WSO, and Daria had thrown up in her oxygen mask once during an earlier familiarization hop, thankfully while it was unhooked, but they were both used to it by now.

"Major terrain feature coming up fast at two 'o clock, 3 miles" said Jane, laconically. Her eyes were split for attention, half the time, they were looking into the hooded display of the radar, and the other half of the time, they were looking up for short periods, in her sector of the aircraft making sure that they didn't miss a powerline, or a terrain feature the TFR did miss. One thing about TFR flight, it wasn't boring.

"Got it, shit, that was a bit close."

Jane smiled to herself, unseen under her mask as they roared down towards their target, an oft-abused AAF airfield left over from WWII. It was now being used as a mock target for F-111 classes at Cannon AFB further south. The airfield had endured more mock nuclear attacks than Almorgordo had real tests. And now, it was Daria and Jane's turn to execute a LABS or Low Altitude Bombing System attack utilizing a pair of notional B-61 nuclear bombs, set to 60 kilotons each. Sure, they were actually 12lb practice weapons that simulated the B61, but for purposes of the exercise, they were real enough.

The idea was to put one of the bombs at either end of the runway, but to be honest, if they got it with spitting range of the middle of the airfield, it would be good enough for the final exam. Another student F-111, coming in from a different approach was going to hit the airfield 2 minutes after the first attack with another _faux_ 60-kiloton device to hit the other end of the airfield. The other practice bomb was there in case the first one missed, though Daria didn't want to contemplate that. Scoring for their final was, well…. strict.

But there was one other consideration, Daria didn't want to contemplate the embarrassment both she and Jane were going to have to deal with if she missed on the first go round. It was an unspoken article of faith among F-111 crews. To miss a target was simply not done, not even two rookies on their final exam to graduate the RTU and become an operational crew.

It had been a long strange trip for them both to the Air Force, someplace that if you had asked either of them, they both would have shrugged and simply said, "shit happens". For Daria, it had all begun one fall day of her senior year of high school in 1977….

* * *

_**Interlude 1: Lightning Strikes**_

_Daria had let herself in after school, and found a note on the table. She was used to this by now, with Quinn having Fashion Club, and her parents off god knew where, with, as Daria surmised, with god knew who? _

_ She shuddered at that last bit, not that both of her parents were having affairs, but the very idea of her parents, well, doing that. Intellectually, she knew this was a silly thing to be grossed out about, I mean, how in the hell did Quinn and she get there if they didn't? But the idea…well, it just didn't sit well. Part of being an American teenager, I guess? But why the note? As she looked on, it was addressed to Quinn and Daria in her mother's prim and proper handwriting. _

_ Daria, Quinn;_

_ We'll be home late; we need to have a family meeting. We'll get into why later._

_ Love, _

_ Mom_

_ Oh Damn, Daria's mind reported, Quinn and her cohorts probably got themselves in some kind of jam and I have to play big sis to the rescue? Daria lunged for the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. After two rings, a familiar and welcome voice picked up on the other end._

_"Hello"_

_"It's me, Jane, Quinn's probably gone and done it again."_

_"Oh crap, want me to come over?"_

_"If you want, seriously, why can't we just drown her and get it over with, I mean, who'd miss her? The Fashion Club, the three Js? She really can't be all that important to the future of humanity or something, can she?"_

_"One hopes not, Morgendorffer, but you know with your history where the cops will look first."_

_"Only if you tell them Lane, only if you tell them."_

_"Traitor" Daria barked with a chuckle._

_"Hey, a girl has to think about her future. And if the cops offer a sweet deal…"_

___"Traitor" Daria barked with a chuckle._

_"Planned homicides aside, can you come over, I just got a bad feeling about this…"_

_"No problema, Amiga. Be over in a few."_

_ Daria gently hung up the phone in the kitchen and made her way upstairs. She was dreading the "family meeting" already._

_Three Hours Later…._

_ Daria and Jane had spent the time studying, and speculating whether or not the family meeting was sending Quinn away because she'd been caught in a cocaine fueled drug bust, or it was the long awaited announcement that the Morgendorffers were getting a divorce. _

_ Nothing had prepared her for the surprise that had been waiting for her downstairs._

_ The kitchen was brighter than normal, with the light bouncing off of the beige linoleum countertops and white marble to create an environment that was almost blinding. But, somehow, Daria faked finding her way to the kitchen table. A forced smile at Quinn, and a less forced smile at her parents came next. God, whatever the hell this is going to be, please let it be quick and merciful._

_"Girls, we have some bad news for you both. I wish it weren't so, but some investments your father made didn't exactly pan out."_

_ "Hey, I thought that beets as alternative fuel was a great idea! You seemed to think so too!" exclaimed Jake, his face turning red with a mixture of mortification and anger._

_ "Yes dear, I suppose you would think so. Mr. "I know so much better about money!" snapped Jane._

_ Quinn and Daria glanced looks at each other. The sisters had been close, once, before the pressures of high school had driven them apart, but now, that closeness was rediscovered. Was this it? Was a divorce finally coming?_

_ "Girls, I'll just come right out and say it. We had to use half of the college fund to pay down some debts, including the mortgage. We're fine, but well, we can only afford to send one of you to college."_

_ Both Daria and Quinns jaws dropped. It was unthinkable that only one of them was going. How in the hell could Dad be so damn irresponsible? I mean, Dad was neurotic about money!_

_ "I hate to do this, girls, but we as a family have to make a decision on which one goes to college, and which one may have to wait a few years."_

_ Daria looked about the table, her sister was crying, her dreams of a life at Fashion Institute of Technology and living in New York were dashed, at best. And Daria's own dreams, of Boston College and being the writer she wanted to be, circling the metaphorical drain. It made her feel sick, and she could feel the bile rising in her throat like an unstoppable tide. _

_ "Jesus!" Daria blurted out. She stood to her feet with a shot "So, what's the plan then? Have us fight it out on the front lawn? Winner goes to college?" Her parents looked on in horror at Daria's words and saw that she was holding back tears by force of will._

_ "Daria, no. You should go. I'm…I'm a bubblehead, you're the smart one." Quinn said softly, placing an hand on her arm._

_ "No, sis. There are options for me. This is your only shot. FIT is a bitch to get into, I looked it up for you." Daria smiled weakly._

_ "What kind of options?" Helen inquired_

_ "Well, there was a Air Force recruiter at school today…and he did say I had the grades to get into the Air Force Academy..and mom, you do know somebody on Representative Steer's staff? Could he get me an academy appointment?"_

_ "Daria, why the hell all the interest in the Air Force? The military ruined my Dad!" Jake exclaimed._

_ "Jake honey, it's her life." Helen said, placing his hand in hers._

_ "Mom, think about it, if I get it, it's a chance for me to go to school on Uncle Sam, I serve my time, get out and do something else." Daria suggested_

_ "True kiddo, but your eyes. I mean, no offense, they aren't that great." Jake said plaintively._

_ "Not that bad either dad, and it's not like I want a flying job." Daria explained._

_ "Let me call the good Congressman in the morning Daria, I am sure I can get you that appointment." Helen smiled a knowing smile._

_ "Ok…" Daria looked on, knowing there was some history between Congressman Steers and her mother that she definitely did not want to know about…_

* * *

Daria snapped back to the present. The rest was history. She'd discovered she LIKED flying, but with her vision and gender, the best she was going to manage was flying C-141s or KC-135s. Not exactly interesting flying and not the kind of flying she wanted to do.

So, what happened? Fate struck again in Daria's life in 1980. As she was home on Christmas break, she consulted her ophthalmologist. It turned out her initial diagnosis of near sightedness was mistaken. She had a simple problem that was easily corrected with a minor surgical procedure. Some time on her back during summer leave from the academy and a medical review board later, she had been cleared for flight status. But because she was a woman, there was still no prospect of any "real flying" as Daria had been informed.

But in 1981, a president Daria hadn't even voted for changed her life forever. While Daria was sweating her junior year at the Air Force Academy, newly elected President Ronald Regan had his own issues. He wanted to expand the military, and that included the Air Force. But, the problem was simple. There was a shortage of potential qualified pilots.

Several solutions were suggested, but all of them required lowering standards to levels neither the Air Force nor the DoD was really happy with. There was only one solution: Put women in the cockpit of combat aircraft. Reagan wasn't happy with it. Neither was Weinberger, but as one White House aide put it "It will get some of the feminists in support of the defense buildup". Thus, with one house bill which had bipartisan support, as of March 6th, 1981, most of the Title 10 restrictions were rescinded and women were now allowed to fly combat or man combat roles on board ships of the US Navy. They were still barred from most combat roles in the Army and the Marines, but the Military Police and some other Combat Support roles had been opened to them.

Daria had immediately run down to find her TAC at the academy, vision of being an F-15 driver dancing in her head. Her tactical officer had mournfully brought her back to earth with the words; "Nope, a lot of the women who are already in are going to beat you to the F-15 and F-16 slots. Just the way things are. But, there are plenty of openings in the F-4, F-111 and A-10 communities. Or you could try B-52s? But I think I know you well enough."

Her TAC had said, "You want F-111s. They are big, fast, loud and you get to fly as low and as fast as you can. I drive F-111s, and I love every damn minute of it."

One trip to Mountain Home AFB and a check ride in an F-111 that summer had sold it for her. It wasn't sleek and hip like F-15s or F-16s, (but the F-111 had pretty nice lines for something that moved mud, and yeah, it was fast) but somehow, it suited the non-conformist in her. And the idea of sneaking around at night making things go boom then running like she'd stolen the aircraft made her smile. _Screw them, fighters make headlines, we attack pilots make history. _

"Hey, you with me, Daria?" Jane exclaimed. "We're coming up on the IP".

"Shit, sorry, just thinking how I got here."

"Comeon, amiga. Head in the game. We got us and thirty million dollars worth of airplane here. I really want to bring it all back the same way we found it."

"Right, ok, break out the Bomb Run (Nuclear) checklists and let's do this" while reaching above her head, keeping her eyes on the world outside.

Just at that moment, the Radar Warning Receiver hooted a wailing noise and a diamond appeared on the display above the WSO's station. It was a small, box like display, with the space around the aircraft displayed into quadrants. A diamond with a "6" appeared on the display, signifying a "Straight Flush" type radar, which was the acquisition and tracking unit for the SA-6 surface to air missile system had acquired the aircraft, and was seeking to lock onto and fire a missile. It wasn't a real SA-6, though the radar was probably real, captured from god knew where, but for Daria's purposes, it was real enough, as getting killed by a SAM would flunk them the exercise, and get them recycled, or repeating the course.

Daria's blood went cold, but her training kicked in "Jane, chaff, jammers, now!"

Jane slammed her fist down on the countermeasures button and turned on their jammer pod under the right wing, she fell into formality and regulation, just as she had been trained "Pilot, SA-6 at 9 o'clock, 8 miles, hasn't fired but she knows we're here."

"Pilot's airplane!" Daria exclaimed as she took back the stick from the autopilot. It was somewhat risky what she was about to do, but she didn't intend to wait until the SA-6 fired before trying to break the lock it had achieved.

"Lane, any significant terrain? I'm gonna take this thing down to 100 feet and run like hell, don't want to blunder into a mountain!"

"Scope's clear for the next six miles, only significant terrain is a minor feature at 11 o'clock, make it 9 miles."

"Stats on the SA-6?"

"15 mile range, speed Mach 2.8, semi-active radar-homing seeker and a minimum attitude of 330 feet."

Daria smiled and sucked in a bit of air noisily. "Shit, first piece of good news, ok, we stay low, pop up for the LABS toss, then kick in the burners and dump a ton of chaff. The target's what, another 12 miles?"

Jane head nodded as she kept her attention riveted on her scope "Yep, but 100 feet? Jesus Daria, we'd better hope nobody put any power lines or simulated guns out there."

Daria's spine chilled at both thoughts. Simulated guns would "kill" them just as dead as the faux SA-6 out there. But the power lines? _That would really make us dead. Bummer._

The time to the release point from the target passed quickly as Daria's attention was fully focused on flying the aircraft. A F-111 100 feet off the ground going full military power left little, if any, margin for error and if Daria rose another 200 feet before she was ready to set up for the toss? Then there was a good chance the SA-6 would catch her and Jane.

"8 miles to target, its time, Daria"

Daria and Jane both reached over with their left hands to a keypad, and punched in a 15 digit code each to "unlock" the practice warheads in the bomb bay. The bombs weren't really B-61s, just 12-pound dummies that were ballistically similar, but for purposes of the exam, everything was done, as it would have been for real.

"Code acknowledged" muttered Jane.

"Code acknowledged, we have nuclear consent."

"Ok, 3, 2, 1. Weapons computer has the airplane. Wait for the cue. Opening bomb bay doors" Jane said tensly. The centerline bomb bay doors opened with a slight hydraulic whine.

The RWR hooted again, and this time, the diamond was with a "57" in the center, signifying there was a Fire Can type radar directing a 57mm battery against Daria's airplane. It was close, looked about maybe 3 miles or so, at 12 o' clock. She could only hope the exercise tracking equipment didn't register a hit against the F-111 during the run, but she couldn't worry too much about it.

"Run's looking good, I have good return on the airfield. I can see the aiming point clearly" said Jane in a satisfied tone.

"PULL, PULL, PULL" intoned a mechanical, female sounding voice from the aircraft, and Daria, put the aircraft on it's tail and advanced the throttle to it's stops. The computer calculated the information from the radar return, calculated where the aircraft was and then automatically triggered the bomb release. Daria continued to pull the F-111 into a half loop, then at the apogee of the loop, turned the aircraft upright, and continued to accelerate away from the target at full afterburner, the blue flame shooting for at least six to eight feet away from the aircraft. A 60 kt nuclear weapon had a lethal radius to flying aircraft of about 3 miles.

"Tell me that hit, tell me that hit, amiga" Jane pleaded.

"Dunno, let's just run like hell before they rule us dead from our own bomb? And don't forget the chaff!"

A few beats passed, and the whine of the RWR turned off, and a voice crackled in Jane and Daria's helmets.

"Rookie 07, this is range control. Ladies, good shack, I repeat, good shack. Comeon home. Watch for Rookie 05 making his own run. Out."

"Yes!" Daria exclaimed, almost squealing.

"We did, amiga! We're big bad fighter jocks now!"

"Me, big, bad? I don't exactly look the part?"

"Ugh, Dammit Daria, It's time to get some ego, girl. We are the new female paragdigm. We fly a 30 million dollar airplane, and we fling nuclear fireballs! We are the epitome of cool!"

"Um, Jane, don't make me hurt you?"

"You won't when you hear what I got planned with you, your Z-28 and our 30 days graduation leave!"

Daria put the aircraft in a gentle turn back towards Cannon and smiled, unhooking her oxygen mask. Jane aped her actions, and both of them smiled a knowing smile.

"Does it begin with Las and end with Vegas?"

"Yes, it does, Daria, I have been too good for too damn long, and so have you. I am in the mood for some sin, and where else but the place that specializes?"

"Ya know, I am getting to like this swagger thing. Didn't think I would, but yeah. I do. Glad I have you to share it with, Jane."

"Suits you Daria, hey, we're fighter pilots, or well, pilot and WSO. But it doesn't matter, we have a cool job! Eat your heart out Brittany!"


	3. Chapter 2

_AN: Thanks for the reviews for those that posted. I am very new to writing Daria, and do keep in mind. This is a very different Daria. She's had to come out of her shell. It's one of those things military aviation will do to you. As for the interlude, please thank Matt Wiser. It's becoming his story as much as it is mine. He's going to help me with the upcoming target "folders". Oops? Did I spoil something?_

**Chapter 2**

_7 Months Later_

_Officers Club_

_RAF Lakenheath_

_Lakenheath, United Kingdom_

_Monday, July 22__nd__, 1985_

_1835 ZULU/1835 Local_

Mondays were always dead days in the O-Club at Lakenheath, and tonight was no exception. But, as young officers found out, it was one of the more _affordable_ options one had when deployed to the UK. So, on a whim, and armed with the fact neither of them was scheduled for the flight roster tomorrow, it seemed a pizza and a beer at the O'Club was in order.

Daria and Jane had arrived at Lakenheath in February, ferrying an F-111 from the depot that had been "zero-timed" or practically rebuilt. It had also been upgraded to an F model from it's previous D model and had been assigned, like Daria and Jane to the 492nd Tactical Fighter Squadron of the 49th Tactical Fighter Wing based at Lakenheath. It had been a somewhat leisurely flight, with plenty of time to talk, and reminisce. Of course, Jane had also taken the crew rest opportunity in Iceland to go nuts in the Reykjavík duty free store. _I didn't think we could fit that much smoked fish and Stoly in the damn bomb bay! Miracle none of it broke. _It was quite the introduction to their crew chief, who still complained to anyone who would listen he couldn't get the fishy smell out of that aircraft. Loudly.

What followed next was a hectic training schedule to learn the nuances of the F-111F versus the D they qualified on back at Mountain Home and Cannon. As of last week, they were fully qualified on the Pave Tack system in the aircraft. Pave Tack was an electro optic targeting pod that also had forward-looking infrared (FLIR) and laser targeting capabilities. Pave Tack was found on both the F-4 and the F-111. It was a big pod, and weighed almost 1400lbs and took up a good chunk of the bomb bay, but it allowed the F-111 to be an all-weather threat.

It had been a grueling time, and the two of them were wrung out between the ground school and the airborne training flights. But, as of last week, they were proclaimed, "qualified". Of course, that week, they had to sit "Victor" or nuclear alert, cut off from the world in the alert shed, hoping the nuclear klaxon never went off.

It was with the end of that that 1st Lieutenants Lane and Morgendorffer were given a rare week off. Priorities being priorities, they had managed to score some off base housing. A small cottage was for rent by an elderly English woman who normally didn't rent to pilots, but since "you're young girls", she figured it was ok. She was moving south to London to live with her daughter and son-in-law, who after their landlord's heart attack wanted her closer to something resembling a hospital, not "living out in the sticks next to an American air base with jets going all hours of the morning and night". The rent was reasonable, and so was the cottage, which for its rustic appearance had all the modern conveniences. It was also a quarter mile to the Lakenheath main gate, which was a bonus. Next was well, getting to know people. Jane and Daria soon found out they were one of only two female crews in the entire wing, and the only one in the squadron. The other female crew, naturally, was looking for like gendered folks that wouldn't constantly see them as a dating opportunity. _Though, _Daria admitted_, most folks had been way too busy around here to do any of that kind of thing. _

So, on a rare day all four crews were off, it was a few phone calls, and off to the O'Club for Pizza, Beer and girl talk. The crew from the 494th was a study in contrasts. The pilot was a blonde, girl-next-door looking 1st Lieutenant from Midleville, MI named Lisa Cunningham. She was an AF brat whose father had been an F-105 driver over North Vietnam, and had thoroughly infected Lisa with the flying bug. Lisa had excelled in her AFROTC classes at Michigan State, and her proud father pinned on her wings, and attended her F-111 replacement unit graduation. Her call sign was "Pony Girl" due to her father revealing to her replacement instructors that she was, well, horse mad. She was a bit shy on the ground, but she flew the F-111 with precision, and sometimes made even the long serving pilots in the squadron feel a bit insecure.

The WSO, was a short, diminutive Asian-American 1st Lieutenant named Alice Kanagawa, she was third generation Japanese-American _Yonsei _and hailed from the most unlikely of places: Mobile, Alabama. She was nuts about the University of Alabama football team (Her brothers had played on it) and her call sign, "Crimson" was a reference to that. Her 'Bama accent sometimes seemed out of place with her ethnic origins, but as she put it "Shit, there's been Japanese in Mobile since the war." Her father was a shrimper who had worked hard to put her and her two brothers through school, but they'd all gotten ROTC scholarships, with her brother Tony a tank platoon leader in West Germany and her other brother a platoon leader with the 82nd Airborne. She took jokes about her height in stride, and many a male aircrew had asked Lisa "So, do you put a phonebook in the airplane for her?" Alice was the opposite of her pilot, she was the life of the party, and had made bringing Daria out her shell a joint project with Jane.

A baseball game between the Mets and Braves was on in the corner, on the TV, but none of the four were watching. All of them were laughing over the tale of just how much Jane had bought at the aforementioned duty-free store.

"You should have seen it, I had three or four shopping carts, and Daria here's sweating like she just got life in prison."

"Did not, I just mentioned what a spectacularly bad idea it was?"

"You'll thank me when you make Captain and we can have a proper wetting down party!"

"Trust me, Daria, you will" Lisa said with a knowing smile.

"Ahem, I am a well behaved Air Force Officer, not like you neanderthals!" Daria exclaimed.

"Uh, sure amiga, is that why you keep running into that F-15 driver from Soesterberg."

"I'll have you know it's the other way around, Jane, and he's getting on my last nerve. Jerk's just waiting to be collateral damage in a battle of wits anyhow."

"I think he's kinda nice" Jane said, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Comeon Daria, how bad could he be?" Alice drawled, "Shit, love or at least a good time is where you find it in the Air Force."

"Ugh, he's annoying, full of himself, and this 'accidental'" Daria waggled her fingers like quotation marks is beginning to piss me off."

"Funny, he says the misanthropic thing ticks him off too." Jane retorted.

"WHAT!" Daria exclaimed, her beer almost taking a tumble.

"Yeah, got his number, we supposedly have a date, but I think he's just using me to get to know you. I intend to play along, Daria."

Daria's face reddened, _I am not going to be jealous. Hell, why am I jealous, he's just some arrogant F-15 jock who wants to score with the cute 'Vark driver and-_

As Daria was about to complete that thought, a series of curses came from the bar. All four heads at the table turned as one to the TV. It was emblazoned with the words "ABC NEWS SPECIAL REPORT".

"Shit, probably Yugoslavia again, some reporter probably got into a shouting match with a Soviet paratrooper."

Yugoslavia had been in the news a lot, ever since civil war had broken out last month, and the Soviets had invaded two weeks ago. It wasn't long before President Reagan and the rest of NATO had demanded a Soviet withdrawal, which of course, had been denied. A US-led intervention had followed 24 hours later, centering on Rijeka and Ljubljana with more Italian, British and US troops arriving daily in the past two weeks. The alert levels had increased slightly at Lakenheath, but there wasn't too much out of the ordinary…but what the hell did this special report mean.

A voice cried out "Turn it up!"

The camera zoomed in on Peter Jennings, and he began with his clipped Canadian accent "Good afternoon from New York everyone, we apologize for interrupting your baseball game. I wish the news we had to report was better, but we have a confirmed report from the press pool with the Marines in Rijeka that there has been a battle between US Marines and Soviet troops. We're going to go live to CBS's Bob Simon, we apologize for the picture and audio quality in advance.."

"Oh Shit" was all Daria could manage to say.

* * *

**_Interlude 2_**

_The White House_

_Washington, DC _

_Monday, July 22__nd__, 1985_

_1502 EDT/1902 ZULU_

President Reagan sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, going over an update from EUCOM in Stuttgart. The Marines and Army Airborne who'd gone into Yugoslavia, along with British and Italian troops, had taken up defensive positions along the Slovenian-Croatian border. The local population-at least the non-Serbian elements, had been grateful to see NATO troops arriving to help defend their newly declared independence, despite the fact that Soviet troops were reportedly closing in on both Zagreb and Ljubljana. Still, the Rules of Engagement did allow for NATO forces to fire first if their positions were threatened, and so far, that seemed to working for the moment.

The President's biggest problem at the moment was domestic. A number of Democratic Congressmen and a couple of Senators had introduced a resolution invoking the War Powers Act, and had been publicly calling for the U.S., along with NATO, to withdraw from Yugoslavia. This, despite the approval from the Democratic leadership on the Hill, just showed that some in the Democratic Party were still thinking that any intervention abroad was a repeat of Vietnam. Though the Democratic leadership, including both House Speaker Tip O'Neil and Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell, had come out in favor of the intervention. Shaking his head, the President was about to go on to some pressing domestic policy papers when his Secretary buzzed. The National Security Advisor, Admiral John Poindexter, had to see him at once. "Send him in," the President said.

Admiral Poindexter came into the Oval Office, a grim look on his face. "Mr. President,"

"What is it, Admiral?"

"Sir, there has been a shooting incident between our forces and the Soviets. Several, actually." Poindexter reported.

"How serious?" Reagan asked, standing up as he did so.

"Serious enough, Mr. President. The first reports, though those are likely to be wrong, indicate that the Soviets just rolled right up to a forward Marine position. They may have assumed the Marines were Croatians, because they opened fire on sight."

"Unless they had orders to fire on any NATO forces they encountered," commented the President.

"Possible,sir." Poindexter acknowledged. "At any rate, a company-sized Soviet force was pinned up near a village west of Zagreb-which the Soviets seem to have decided to bypass-and a number of Soviet tanks and armored personnel carriers were destroyed. Marine aircraft from Italy have also encountered MiGs while they were flying cover for our forces on the ground, and two MiG-23s tried to engage the Marine F-4s. They were destroyed, and a Soviet pilot was captured by Marines on the ground, along with a number of Soviet soldiers from the prior engagement."

Reagan paused for a few moments, clearly thinking over the situation. Though there had been encounters between American and Soviet forces in Korea, and Soviet attacks on American reconnaissance aircraft, those had been minor skirmishes. Now, Americans and Soviets were facing off on a real battlefield, and he knew full well that things were likely to go down a slippery slope that would likely lead to war. "Casualties on our side?"

"Some, sir. No hard numbers as yet," Poindexter said.

Nodding, Reagan picked up the phone on his desk and called his secretary. "I want the Secretaries of Defense and State here, along with the Vice-President, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the CIA Director here in an hour."

"Yes, Mr. President," his secretary replied.

"All right, John," Reagan asked his National Security Advisor, "What's next?"

Poindexter took a deep breath. "Mr. President, we'd better start thinking about implementing REFORGER, or at the very least, preparing to do so. The sooner we make that decision, the better. That means calling up the Civil Reserve Air Fleet, and getting NATO and other allied merchant ships into friendly ports to get convoys organized and loaded."

"And what else does that entail?"

"Mr. President, that means that the aircraft that take troops to Europe bring back military and embassy dependents, tourists, and so on."

Nodding, the President stood up and went to the window of the Oval Office. He looked out on the White House lawn, and gazed at the tourists on the sidewalk. "It's been forty years, John. It's happening again." _Dear God, what will it be like? _

Don Regan, the White House Chief of Staff, had heard, and he was coming into the Oval Office. "Mr. President, I've heard. The TV Networks have this story. They're all calling it 'First Clash,' and there's also video out."

The President turned to his Chief of Staff. "How'd they find out so fast?"

"Sir, after the controversy over the media blackout during the Grenada operation, DOD organized a National Media Pool, as you know." Seeing the President nod, Regan went on, "When the Marines went in, the Pool was activated and they went in a few hours later. CBS has the pool's TV crew, and the networks are sharing the report."

"Let's see it," the President ordered.

Nodding, Regan went to the bank of TV sets in the Oval Office, and turned one of them on-to the D.C. ABC affiliate. Peter Jennings was on, with the "Special Report" title at the bottom of screen, and there was Bob Simon, who was the CBS pool reporter, giving a description of the fighting. "So far, Peter, the Marines here say that the Soviets just drove right up to their positions, and the Soviets just opened fire." The camera panned around, catching several wrecked BTR-70 APCs, a couple of BRDM reconnaissance vehicles on fire, and three burning T-72 tanks, and ominously, the body of a Soviet tank commander hanging halfway outside his hatch on one of the tanks. "Right now, the Marine commander says he's staying right where he is, and if the Russians want this position, they'll have to fight for it."

"How about American casualties?" Jennings asked.

"There are some, Peter, but as to numbers, the Marines won't say just yet. And Soviet casualties? Just take a look around-that should tell you." And the camera did pan around again, focusing in on several wrecked BTRs and numerous dead Soviet soldiers, who had been cut down by small-arms and machine gun fire escaping from their vehicles."And the Marines here say they do have some Soviet prisoners." The cameraman then focused on several bewildered young men in Soviet uniform, guarded by Marines. Then it focused on a nearby Marine M-60A1 tank, its turret swiveling, then a loud BOOM as the tank's cannon fired. On a nearby ridge, a fireball erupted, and a speck that must have been a vehicle of some sort began to burn.

"What happened?" Asked the ABC anchor.

"Well, Peter, the Marine commander says there's at least a battalion of Soviet troops to the east, and a company of them tried to come over that ridge just after the first encounter. They pulled back, but every so often, a Soviet vehicle and some infantrymen have come over the ridge top. The Soviets have pulled back each time, but they keep trying to come over that ridge. And Marine artillery fire has landed on them several times."

"Turn it off, Don," Reagan said.

"Yes, Mr. President," and Regan did so.

"All right, Admiral," the President said, turning to his National Security Advisor, "Who's your best Soviet expert, civilian-wise?"

"That would be Dr. Condi Rice, Mr. President."

"Get her. I want her in on this meeting as well. But how do you think the Soviets will take this?"

Poindexter paused, choosing his words carefully. "Sir, I really don't know, but my best guess is that they won't take this easily. The first real clash between American and Soviet forces, and they were seen to be on the run. It won't go down very well either in the Kremlin or in the Ministry of Defense."

* * *

"Shit, are we at war?" some unidentified denizen at the bar asked.

"No, we're not, not yet" a lanky older gentleman opined, twisting his cigar. He wore blue fatigues, and Warrant Officer bars, and looked like the old man of the sea. There was a knowing look in his eyes. "You youngins need to know it. We aren't at war yet. But we will be. The Russkies don't take shit like this lying down. And it won't be like some damn video game. Not by a long sight." He finished his drink and made for the door like a shot from a cannon.

Daria turned towards her companions "So, what now?"

Lisa opined "Let's assume 12 hour rule, head for your place, drink Coke and watch the news."

"And call our folks" Alice added.

"Sounds like a plan, I'll get our coats. Daria, pay the man." Jane added

Daria grimaced as she laid out the money, _I think money's going to be the least of my concerns real soon._


	4. Chapter 3

_AN: Again, Matt Wiser wrote the excellent interlude. I want to thank everyone for their reviews and questions. I am doing the best I can right now and considering this is the first time I've WRITTEN air combat scenes, I am hoping I am doing well. Hope you enjoy, this chapter is something for a placeholder as things are going to get a lot worse...just more quickly now._

* * *

_8 miles SSE of RAF Scampton_

_F-111 s/n 72-1447_

_1420 ZULU/1420 Local_

_Tuesday, July 23__rd__, 1985_

"Jane, tell me we lost him" Daria implored as she kept an eye on the terrain zipping by the aircraft. The TFR was set to HARD and usually, the auto-pilot came through, but occasionally…terrain and aircraft did intersect, painfully.

"Dunno, TWR doesn't have him, but I bet the limey sonofabitch is back there." Jane intoned, then she glanced at the air speed indicator

"Watch the speed boss, we're gonna "boom" a village or two down there." Jane was referring to the fact that going supersonic so low over the peacetime uK was frowned upon by the locals. An F-111 at 300-500 feet going supersonic could break a lot of windows.

"I know, but this asshole's running me out of options." Daria exclaimed. "We at the IP yet?"

"Coming up on it…NOW!"

"Awesome, let's pull our checklists for Bomb Run (Conventional) and..." Daria said, when a horrible sound crackled in their ears on the GUARD frequency.

"TAKA TAKA TAKA. I am sorry ladies, but you are some dead sepos." the voice said.

"SHIT!" Daria exclaimed, she turned apologetically "Sorry Jane, we lost"

"Least it wasn't for real" Jane shrugged "We'll do better next time".

"Thunder Lead, this Tuna 2, nice work. How did you get us? We didn't pick you up on the threat receiver?"

"Lots of gritted teeth and damn near Mach 1 at low-level, I turned the radar off and went for a guns shot. God you bloody 'Vark drivers are fast! Hope the Fencer troops don't fly as well as you."

"Well, you got us, so you should be able to get them." Dara said, a resigned tone in her voice.

"Yes, but I suspect others of your flight got past us, coming up alongside you from your 6 o clock left."

Daria craned her neck around, and fought to see the old F-4M come ease up alongside the F-111, waggling it's wings.

"If you'll look to your left, dear madam?" Thunder Lead intoned.

There was a hand written sign on a pilot's kneeboard from the backseater. It was held up against the pilot's glass. Daria had to reach for her binoculars to read it. It said simply "NEXT TIME YOU LADIES GRACE CONNINGSBY, YOU'RE BUYING THE BITTER!" It also had a string of numbers that could only be a phone number.

Daria turned a shade of red that could be noticed even under her helmet and mask, with her visor being up. She turned to Jane as her peals of laughter could be heard through the intercom system.

"Jesus Daria, we're supposed to be working, not keeping up relations" as Jane said, struggling with her laughter.

"Hey, he hit on me!" Daria exclaimed "He's better about it than Mr. Soesterberg, god what a creep!"

_Nicely done, Daria, cover the fact you just might like the moron, ok, he is an F-15 driver with an ego the size of Texas and…_

"..anyhow Tuna 2, we're at bingo and it's time for us to head back to Conningsby, thanks for the lovely chase."

"Roger that Thunder Lead, hope we made a good tackling dummy" Daria said dryly.

"Eh Tuna 2? Ah, yes, American Football reference. Really, ours is so much more civilized."

"Really, riots and all? Nah, not much of a sports gal, Thunder Lead." Daria said with a giggle.

"That's the Yobs, and I suspect many of them are going to be learning a little discipline soon. They signed Queen's Order 2 last night. As I said though, we should be off, good flight back to Lakenheath."

With that, the Phantom tipped over on its wing, broke away sharply and rejoined its fellow, who holding off at a distance.

Daria turned to Jane, who was still giggling "Gee Daria, you have a way with fighter jocks, mind telling me your secret?"

"Screw you, gimme a heading back to Lakenheath, and what happened to callsigns in the air?"

"Sorry Butch," intoned Jane "So, shall it be direct or the scenic route?"

"Let's go scenic, we can practice a low level pass over Bentwaters and scare the shit out of those A-10 pukes They're practically committing incest with the Army anyhow, Sundance."

Jane smiled at the last idea "See, Butch, a little _schadenfreude _and you are right as rain."

Daria smiled at that last thought. "You think?"

"I know my best friend, Butch, and we are bad motherfucking fighter pilots, losing gracefully is not part of the program! Now, since we have a while before we have to check in with the ADIZ, what shall it be Butch? Journey or AC/DC? I am feeling a little Steve Perry myself."

"Sundance, give us a little Journey for our journey if you would?"

"On it, bosslady!" Jane said with a flourish as she produced a tape cassette from the arm pocker of her flight suit and popped it into a tape deck crudely velcroed to the top of the instrument panel next to the TWR. She popped in the tape, pressed play, and the song _Don't Stop Believin _kicked in, filling the cabin with the kind of tempo that helped Daria get into the rhythm of putting the aircraft through her paces as they made a turn towards the North Sea.

* * *

_45 minutes later _

As Daria and Jane neared the coast, they killed the music and Daria dropped the aircraft down to 1500 feet, the F-111's wings in full sweep and her two turbofans glowing like twin blue orbs against the afternoon sky.

"Damn" Jane mused, "the mix tape was just getting to Highway to Hell!"

"Wanna get another speech about how the plane "belongs to the taxpayers", Sundance?"

"Not really, but I get you, Butch. By the way, your temper is up? Wanna talk about it?" Jane intoned

"Just pissed I got us whacked." Daria said ruefully.

"Hey, those Russians don't fly as well as the Brits do, comeon! You'll do better in the real thing. You always flubbed the practice SATs and then what happned, _chica? _You got an even 1650!"

"Guess you're right, just worried."

"And I appreciate it, Butch, but now's the time to fly casual, apply lessons learned and think on what we did wrong, and what we did right, ok? Anyhow, I'd like to cap this off by scaring those proto-Army guys at Bentwaters? Think we can do that. _jefe?"_

Daria nodded "Bentwaters Tower, this is Tuna 2, we're an F-111 from Lakenheath, requesting permission for a low level pass of the base from east to west, over."

The reply was short in coming

"Tuna 2, Bentwaters Tower, negative on your permission, climb to 3000 feet and continue on to Lakenheath at heading 250. Our pattern is full, over."

Daria tuned to Jane "This is new, Sundance."

"No shit. Wonder what's up."

"Damned if I know, let's do as the tower says, I really don't wanna piss off the tower today, Sundance."

"Got it, I'll watch for traffic."

"Thanks."

The sky was clear with barely a cloud in it up to ten thousand, so watching for traffic was easy, the troubling part was, is that there was so much of it. Even a base like Bentwaters shouldn't have been that busy…

It was then Daria noticed something. She dove for the binoculars and trained them on the base._ Where are all the A-10s? There's supposed to be A-10s here. And what are those F-4s doing on the ramp? Wait. did they send the A-10s on to Germany? Are things getting that bad?_

'Butch, we got traffic at our 4 O'Clock low, coming up fast, looks small, wait, it's a pair of F-5s, shit, it's the aggressor guys, probably up to hassle us."

"Fuck, another bunch of fighter pilots giving us grief today?" Daria intoned.\

"Looks like it Butch."

The two shapes resolved themselves into a pair of sleek, shark nosed F-5 Freedom Fighter IIs in Soviet style camouflage and "bort" numbers along the sides of the nose. These were aircraft from the 527th Tactical Fighter Training and Aggressor Squadron. Daria and Jane had had run ins with them before. They flew like Soviet and Warsaw Pact pilots and the F-5s simulated the MiG-21 quite well. Daria and Jane had been "killed" by them, a lot. It was a fate many an AF pilot had shared. In deflating egos amongst the rest of the Air Force, they had built theirs up.

But something was wrong with the F-5s as they pulled alongside. Daria couldn't place it at first, something just didn't seem right…but then it hit her like a damn thunderbolt from the heavens. It was the Sidewinders on the wingtip rails. Most of the time, the F-5s carried captive blue tipped exercise rounds on one tip, and a ACMI (Air Combat Maneuvering Instrumentation Pod) on the other, but this time, both tips had live, white tipped Sidewinders.

"Daria, are those live AIM-9s?"

"Hell yes!"

"Things are getting real, aren't they?"

"Damn straight."

As soon as the F-5s got a good look at the F-111, they both broke smartly away, lit their burners and dove back down to the deck.

"Guess they wanted to make sure we weren't Russians?"

"I hate to think what would have happened if we were, Sundance, I really do. Let's get the fuck out of here, gimme a steer for Lakenheath."

"I will, Butch, but let's fly casual along the heading they gave us, if the Aggressors are toting live warshots? No telling who else might be tight on the trigger around here."

Daria nodded, and both of them said little about it, or anything else beyond the minimum required the rest of the flight back to Lakenheath. It was as if both were lost in their own thoughts, and fears of the coming storm that now seemed to be becoming more inevitable by the day.

* * *

**_INTERLUDE 3_**

_The White House, Washington, D.C._

_1005 Hours EDT/1505 Hours GMT_

_Tuesday, July 23rd, 1985_

President Reagan was in the Situation Room, meeting with the Vice Peresident and his National Security Advisers. Besides VP George Bush, Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger, and Admiral Poindexter, the National Security Advisor, Gen. John Vessey, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, CIA Director William Casey, Secretary of State George Schultz, and the National Security Council's top Soviet expert, Dr. Condelezza Rice, were all at the Cabinet table. They were going over developments in Europe, and the likely response.

"So far, Mr. President, Admiral Crowe at CINCSOUTH in Naples is reporting that the Soviets in Yugoslavia have halted-for the time being at least, in both Slovenia and in Croatia." General Vessey was telling the President. "However, there have been some air clashes, and we've lost a couple of Marine Phantoms. But, we've also destroyed several Soviet aircraft."

"And we've told the Soviets not to get within a certain distance of our forces, correct?" Asked the President.

"Yes, sir." General Vessey replied. "So far, their ground forces are doing that."

The President turned to his Secretary of State. "George, anything out of Dobrynin?" Anatoly Dobrynin was the longtime Soviet Ambassador to the U.S., and knew America probably better than anyone in the Soviet Foreign Ministry.

"No, Mr. President,. Not a word. My people say that the Soviet leadership may be keeping him in the dark deliberately."

"They don't trust him. He's 'gone native', in other words?" Dr. Rice asked.

"That's what my people tell me," Schultz replied.

The President sighed. "All right. I've sent that letter to Cherenenko, offering to meet with him anywhere, anytime, to settle this without any further bloodshed. Mutual withdrawal from Yugoslavia, under UN supervision, a referendum in each of the three breakaway states in Yugoslavia to confirm their desire for independence, all of it. If I don't hear from him by noon, I'll make it public."

Everyone understood the need to show the world that the U.S wasn't pushing the Soviets into a war; and that Reagan was willing to go the extra mile to seek a negotiated settlement. Whether or not the Russians would see that was another question.

Dr. Rice spoke up. "Sir, they'll read the letter. And they'll ignore it."

Heads turned to her. "What makes you say that?" Weinberger asked.

"Mr. Secretary, we're dealing with a Politburo that has an average age of 66. If what the British are saying after Gordievsky's defection is true-and there's no reason to doubt that, we've got a major problem."

"Could you explain further?" CIA Director Casey asked. He had gotten the MI-6 debrief of Gordievsky, and he'd nearly turned pale reading it.

"Of course. The Soviet leadership, apart from a few Candidate-or nonvoting-Members of the Politburo, is not just aging, but paranoid. That Able Archer exercise in 1983 scared them:they honestly believed that it was a cover for a real attack. Despite what their own intelligence sources-whether KGB, GRU, or Stasi-told them. They're living in the world of 1941, not 1985, and are convinced that the West plans to attack them at the earliest opportunity." Dr. Rice said.

"They're that paranoid?" Vice-President George Bush asked. A former Director of the CIA, he knew the intelligence business.

"They are. None of the Politburo members-other than Foreign Minister Gromyko-have been to the West, though a few of the Candidate members have, but they have no influence on policy. And since 1941, the Soviets have vowed never again to be caught napping by a surprise attack."

Digesting this, the President nodded. He turned to Director Casey. "Anything to add?"

"Mr. President, we can confirm a few things, though I do agree with Dr. Rice's assessment," Casey replied. First, the Soviets have not discharged their time-expired soldiers, either from Eastern Europe, or in the Western Military Districts. They've called up their new draftees, who normally would be coming into service anyway. Second, we're getting signs via overheads of movement of trains and rolling stock to the Baltics, Beylorussia, and the Ukraine."

"Right to Soviet Army garrisons, Bill?" Poindexter asked.

"That's correct, Admiral. They're getting ready to move large numbers of troops west." Casey responded.

"Didn't they just run a major exercise?" Secretary Schultz asked.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary, they did. And they even called up some reservists for that. But those men haven't been discharged, either. And there's also activity at key Soviet naval bases on the Kola Peninsula, as well as the Baltic, the Black Sea, and the Pacific. They're getting ready to surge subs into the sea lanes."

"Any signs of a Soviet strategic forces alert?" The President asked.

"No, sir. They do seem to be going out of their way to avoid that: their missile subs at sea are in their normal patrol patterns, and none of their SS-20s have moved out of their garrisons. Also, no unusual activity has been observed at their ICBM fields, nor their strategic bombers. There is a lot of activity at their theater bomber bases-the Badgers, Blinders, and Backfires, but none of the Bears assigned to intercontinental missions have been active, apart from routine training." Casey reported.

The President digested everything he'd heard. "Recommendations?"

"Mr. President," General Vessey said. "General Rogers at SHAPE has formally asked for REFORGER. If we're going to hold them conventionally, we need III Corps and the reinforcements for V and VII Corps."

"Approved," Reagan said at once. "You can call up the Civil Reserve Air Fleet, and start getting those convoys organized."

Vessey let out a invisible sigh of relief. "Yes, Mr. President."

"Mr. President," Weinberger added, "some units tagged for REFORGER are National Guard-"

"Cut the orders Federalizing them," Reagan directed. "I can call up to 100,000 without Congressional approval. That goes for any Air National Guard as well."

Secretary Weinberger nodded. "That includes evacuation of military dependents, and nonessential civilian DOD employees from Europe, you do realize?."

"Who comes out first?"

"Mr. President, the dependents in Germany and the Low Countries. That includes West Berlin. In fact, we'd better get them out first, in case the Soviets decide to seal off the air corridors." Weinberger paused, then went on, "Phase II is Britain, Iceland, Italy, Greece, and Spain."

"I'd like to include nonessential Embassy and Consulate staff, and all Foreign Service dependents as well," Secretary Schultz added.

"Granted," the President said at once. "And get as many Americans out of Europe as you can; expatriates, tourists, whatever. And what's in the first wave of REFORGER?"

"Yes, sir, on the evacuation. Now, the first group for REFORGER will be the 2nd Armored from III Corps along with Corps HQ, the 4th ID for V Corps, and the 1st Infantry, the Big Red One, for VII Corps. Then the rest of III Corps follows." Weinberger said. "That's 1st Cav, 5th ID, and 3rd ACR, along with Corps aviation, artillery, etc."

"Very well, and the Air Force as well?" Seeing Weinberger and Vessey nod, Reagan asked, "Anything else?"

"There's one other thing, Mr. President. Do you with to increase the DEFCON level?" Weinberger asked.

"Not now. I don't want to be seen as pushing the Soviets into a war. If they do something, then we'll do just that. Keep everyone at DEFCON 4.."

Neither Weinberger or Vessey liked that, but they knew the President had a point. "Yes, Mr. President."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Main Gate_

_RAF Lakenheath_

_Lakenheath, United Kingdom_

_Thursday, July 25th, 1985_

_0830 Local/0830 ZULU_

Daria and Jane were fighting their lack of sleep with a mixture of willpower and coffee as they checked themselves over as they sat in the line of cars that had accumulated to enter the main gate at Lakenheath. They wore their flightsuts and sidecaps, with their aviator sunglasses hiding the bloodshot eyes and bags from having to stay up all night writing performance evaluations for their enlisted ground crew and then translate them into "Pentagon-ese." Today was the deadline for their submittal so they made the cutoff for promotion during this fiscal year. _Ah the Air Force, _Daria mused _20% flying, 80% paperwork. _

There was also an AAR to go over with her flight leader on why they got tagged by that Brit F-4 and then the gripe sheet for the airplane to submit in triplicate, one copy to the crew chief, one to squadron maintenance and another to squadron operations. The F-111's air-conditioning was erratic and a couple of gauges kept giving false readings, nothing serious, but one of them was the fuel gauge and that could lead to some issues. It was only off by 250lbs and Jane and Daria had long known to correct for it, but better to get it get fixed now, with a potential war in the air. There also was the issue of the backup altimeter that had quit in the landing pattern. That had been a bit more serious.

_And that's assuming any of the gripes get fixed before the end of the month. We're running up against a new fiscal year, so while Wing's looking for new ways to spend money? They're also looking for ways to save money. It's positively schizophrenic._

"Shit, _amiga? _What the hell is the holdup?" queried Jane.

Daria shrugged, but then it hit her. The usual security around the base was a few USAF Security Policemen, armed with their ubiquitous holstered .38s in near perfectly creased OG fatigues, boots and badges shined to a gleaming standard, standing by the main gate and checking IDs and giving razor sharp salutes, and giving the kids of base personnel more jaunty ones once they were satisfied with your bona fides. Not today.

Today the looks on the faces of the SP's were far grimmer, and there was RAF Regiment personnel in attendance as well, with their DPMs clashing with the SP OG uniforms as they were setting up sandbagged positions on either side of the road leading up to the main gate, all the SP's had M16s, and they were not slung. Not today. And every car was being given the once over, trunks opened, wheel wells checked with flashlights, and mirrors on poles run under the car. Daria also noticed there was a M-60 being setup within sight of the main gate in another position just inside the fence. There was also a pair of SPs, one with a military working dog going up and down the line of cars and letting the dog sniff the cars freely.

"Daria, what the hell is going on? We on alert?"

"I dunno. But some serious shit must have gone down overnight. Look, stay cool. It's just another day at work, right?" Daria said, a note of hope in her voice.

Both said little as Daria's black Camaro inched its way toward the main gate as the traffic slowly made its way on post. All the while, aircraft landed and took off, rattling the cars with the jetwash as it made its way towards the ground.

Daria decided to turn on the radio, pushing in the button on the car radio to both turn on the radio and set the tuner for the pre-set to Armed Forces Network, and she was greeted with the oddest thing she'd ever heard.

The radio had a single monotone voice that simply repeated "Execute Even Fox, Execute Even Fox." The voice repeated the phrase three times, and then without preamble, went right into the strains of the Beatles "Eleanor Rigby".

Daria and Jane looked at each other in bemusement and confusion. "What the hell is going on?" they both said to each other at once.

"Jinx!" both then said.

"Tie doesn't count." Daria said laconically

"Damn well does, we owe each other." Jane said, shaking her head ruefully.

"Kinda defeats the purpose?"

"Daria, standards must be upheld, that is something you, of all people should be in favor of!" Jane said with a tone of mock rapprochement.

"Traitor"

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard you accuse your best friend of treason? That's a serious charge in these troubled times? I mean, Daria, why in the world would I betray us to the Russians? Not like they have much to offer me short of crushing poverty, government controlled art and really bad architecture." Jane said with a crooked smile.

Daria shrugged again "I suppose so, thanks for the bit of levity there."

Jane nodded "_De Nada amiga, _I'm scared too."

Daria looked Jane in the eyes. "Jane, if it comes, to, you know. Could we really do it?"

Jane nodded "Yeah, Daria, we could. Don't know whether to be proud of that or cry."

"How about both?"

After a seeming eternity, the car pulled even with the guard shack, which was now manned by one of those grim-faced SPs. The SP who approached the car was an impossibly young Airman 1st Class, who's most prominent facial feature was his adam's apple. His acne was only now fading and he was in full battle rattle, which made him look bigger than he probably was. He was covered by several of his fellows as well as a pair of "rockapes" from the RAF Regiment who held their FN-FALs at the low ready position, but they looked ready to raise them to their shoulders with the slightest excuse.

"Mam," he nodded at Daria, and then again at Jane "Mam, I have to ask you both to get out of the vehicle and please keep your hands in plain view, base commander's instituted a general search of all vehicles entering the base, no exceptions, mam." The SP shrugged with his rifle for emphasis, expressing his regret on having to do this.

Daria was shocked; she hoped it wasn't too obvious on her face. The sunglasses did a good job of hiding the eyes, but the rest of the face was probably turning white at this point. _Probably a dead give away I'm not Spetsnaz. _

Daria simply nodded and got out of the car, and stepped away from it a short distance, as Jane did the same from the other direction. Both were patted down by female SPs, who then gave a "thumbs up" to their opposite numbers. While that was going on, the car was searched, the glovebox was opened and rifled, the wheel wells were gone over with a flashlight, the trunk opened and it's contents gone through, nothing was left unsearched, even the bottom of the car was searched with a mirror on a pole.

"ID, mam? And could you remove your sunglasses, mam?" the female SP queried.

Daria fished for her wallet slowly. This many armed and nervous folks around, sudden movements were definitely a bad idea. She gingerly produced her green DoD issued ID card which made her look like an axe murderer and handed it to the SP, who looked both her and the picture up and down far more carefully than had been previously done. While she was giving Daria the once over, Daria removed her sunglasses, and winced at the sunlight that poured into her defenseless eyes.

Soon, the SP seemed satisfied with the nature of Daria's identity; she came to attention and snapped off a salute "Thank you, mam, you're clear to proceed. Have a good day!"

Daria returned the salute, muttering about mornings such as these, came to attention and returned the salute. _Not her fault so I might as well be decent about it._ As she made her way back to her car and got in about the same time as Jane, who was equally nonplussed, she put on a gritted smile and growled. "Shall we find some parking and head to work?"

"Might as well, things being on the verge of World War III, they might need some 'Vark drivers. Where the hell are they going to find those?" Jane said with a snarky smile on her face.

Daria simply shook her head as she put the Camaro into drive.

As the car cruised onto the base, both Daria and Jane drove slowly, taking the time to notice the various activities happening on the base. Security Police and RAF Regiment people were everywhere, either walking guard mounts, setting up machine gun positions, or in at least one case Daria noticed, the RAF was setting up a Rapier position overlooking the main runway.

And as for the main runway….it was a hive of activity, ungainly looking C-141s landing and taking off, and as she noticed the ramp, a C-9 parked on the far end of the ramp, along with 2 other aircraft, 767s from the look of them in United Airlines livery.

"Daria, what the hell is United Airlines doing here?"

"Somebody musta pushed the panic button and called up the CRAF, guess REFORGER's started."

REFORGER, or Return of Forces to Germany was an acronym meant to describe the crash deployment of US forces by air to meet up with pre-positioned equipment in Germany. It had been practiced every year as part of routine NATO exercises, but those NATO exercises had never involved cargo aircraft landing at Lakenheath. Considering also that REFORGER had concluded last month, there was only one conclusion: This was no exercise.

"Things must have gone from bad to worse in Yugoslavia." Jane mused

"God, I thought Reagan's offer last night would have calmed them down." Daria said as she shook her head.

"Guess not" Jane shrugged.

It wasn't long before Daria's Camaro cruised into it's usual parking space at her squadron area, and the two put on their "pillbox" covers and sunglasses, grabbed their flight bags (which had more uses than just being their flight equipment) and checked each over to make sure they were presentable.

Satisfied that they were, they made their way to the squadron offices, performing the military ritual of saluting and answering salutes. One thing neither of them could miss is nobody was doing the usual "movement with a purpose" today, but more walking briskly, or in some cases, outright running.

Daria looked at Jane in puzzlement after she noticed an Airman First Class with an armful of papers barely manage a salute to both of them as he attempted to become the first human to reach warp 2.

The unspoken question of them both: "How bad is it now?

As they reached the door to the squadron offices, they doffed their covers and sunglasses, pocketing both in their flightsuits, and as soon as they did…they saw the unbridled bedlam as opposed to the usual quiet competence the squadron administrative staff usually showed, one usually didn't hear much more than muted phone calls punctuated by brisk typing..not today.

Today, people were almost yelling into the phones, and admin staffs of all ranks were running about the office with arms stuffed with papers. They'd never seen the office like this.

Daria was determined to get to the bottom of this. She grabbed the first person she could find, an Tech Sergeant who had a 3 foot stack of folders stuffed with forms that he barely balanced in his arms.

"Shit, who the hell's grabbing…Oh, crap..sorry mam, it's all hit the fan today.

"What's going on, Sarge?" Daria asked

The tow-headed Tech Sergeant shook his head, his violet eyes bleary from too many hours on Air Force coffee alone and his OG uniform badly rumpled. He'd been at this for days. "The NCA's activated REFORGER, mam and the squadron staff's been busy all day with admin requests, maintenance requests, as well as coordinating the movement of munitions to the flight line."

Jane jumped in "Wait, they're moving live munitions to the flight line?"

"Right to the HAS's mam. The Russians increased the pace of their mobilization last night and word is, Chernenkyo's giving a speech today. I doubt the news will be good, mam. Oh, and I almost forgot, all unmarried pilots without dependants are to drop what they're doing and report to the ready room, immediately."

"Goodie, guess we're all on Victor alert now." Daria mused.

"Don't even joke about that, Daria."

"Who's joking?"

Thursday, 25 July 1985,

0700 EDT/1200 GMT (1800 Moscow Time)

The White House, Washington, DC

President Reagan and his National Security Team were meeting in the Situation Room, in what was becoming a daily routine. Just as JFK had in 1962, Reagan was having such meetings twice a day, as the Yugoslav Crisis seemed likely to escalate into a full-scale war between NATO and the Warsaw Pact. And the American public, thanks to the news footage shot by the DOD Media Pool, now felt themselves to be at war with the Soviet Union. So far, the shooting had been confined to Slovenia and Croatia, but that couldn't last forever.

The President asked Secretary of Defense Weinberger, "Cap, how's REFORGER going so far?"

"Mr. President, the lead elements of III Corps are on the ground in Germany and Holland. They're drawing their equipment from their POMCUS sites. Right now, III Corps HQ, lead elements of the 1st Cavalry Division, and additional elements of the 2nd Armored Division are on the ground. Also, the 4th ID for V Corps and the 1st ID for VII Corps are also arriving. And yes, dependents and all other nonessential Americans are coming out. Phase I of evacuation from Germany and the Low Countries is well underway, and we've begun Phase II from England, Italy, Greece, and Spain this morning."

"Good," the President said. He turned to the CIA Director, William Casey. "And the Soviets?"

"They're beginning to move what we believe is the 28th Army from Beylorussia. They're tagged for East Germany: most of their units are part of Group of Soviet Forces Germany in peacetime, but the Soviets are moving the rest in. We're also seeing movement in the Baltic MD, and it's expected the two Armies there will move through Poland and East Germany to attack Schlesweig-Holstein and Denmark." Casey reported.

"What about the Tank Army Groups, one each in Beylorussia and the Ukraine?" Admiral Poindexter, the NSA, asked.

"They're getting ready as well. Overheads show unit shakedowns, things like that. And their Air Force units in both Beylorussia and the Ukraine are getting ready to deploy forward."

"Thank you, Director," Reagan said.

"Mr. President," House Speaker Tip O'Neil said. He'd been asked to sit in on these meetings by the President, and O'Neil had made sure that whatever the President needed out of Congress to respond, he would get, and, if necessary run right over the anti-war members of the House in the process. "No formal response from Moscow to your letter?"

"No, Mr. Speaker, there hasn't," Reagan replied. "Nor have they responded to Waldheim's offer, or the Pope's, for that matter." He was referring to UN Secretary-General Kurt Waldheim's offer of his "good offices" to mediate between the superpowers, even offering to host a summit at the UN's offices in Geneva. And Pope John Paul II had made a similar request, offering to host Reagan and Premier Cherenenko at the Vatican for a conference. The Soviets' silence had been ominous.

"Mr. President," Weinberger said. "The Navy reports that Strike Fleet Atlantic is forming off of Norfolk. That means a four-carrier battle group ready to go north to the Barents Sea, if necessary. That's _Nimitz, Eisenhower, Americ_a, and _Independence_. _Coral Sea_ is headed to the Med to back up _John F. Kennedy_ and _Forrestal_, with _Saratoga_ right behind her." He paused for a moment. "_Enterprise_ is in the Indian Ocean, and..."

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Secretary," Dr. Condi Rice said. She had just taken a phone call. "NSA is reporting that Premier Cherenenko is about to give the speech before the Supreme Soviet. CNN is going to be carrying it, live. It should be on at any moment."

Reagan nodded to Don Regan, his Chief of Staff. "Let's see it."

Regan turned one of the TVs in the Sit Room to CNN, and the commentator was noting that every seat in the Supreme Soviet was full. Then the Premier came in, with Defense Minister Marshal Sergei Sokolov right behind him, and the KGB Chief, Viktor Chebrikov. Everyone watching noted the somber expressions on all three, and the Premier appeared exceptionally grim-faced. Chernenenko went to the podium and began to speak.

The translator was having a hard time keeping up, and for sure, the NSA would have a full transcript as soon as the speech was finished, but Cherenenko was lashing out at the West, denouncing the U.S., Britain, and Italy for "Blatantly interfering in the affairs of a fraternal socialist state, and the unprovoked aggression against the Soviet Armed Forces in Yugoslavia."

VP George Bush noted, "Nothing new there."

Reagan nodded as the Premier went on. "When Soviet blood has been shed, there will be a response. That cowboy in the Oval Office, who thinks that nuclear missiles are six-shooters, and that tired old bitch in London, who follows him at every turn, they will discover the error of their ways. The same goes for Kohl, that fascist in Bonn, who longs for restoration of Germany's 1937 borders, and that 'sunshine socialist' in Paris, Mitterrand, who claims to be 'independent' of America, and yet, has followed her in Lebanon and elsewhere."

Reagan looked at Director Casey. "Has he lost it?"

"Looks that way, Mr. President,"

"As for that Nazi who calls himself 'Secretary-General', the USSR does not accept offers of so-called 'mediation' from a Fascist, nor does it do the same from a reactionary churchman whose aim is to undermine a fraternal socialist state," Cherenenko said, denouncing both Waldheim and the Pope. He went on. "For there to be a peaceful solution, NATO must withdraw its forces from Yugoslavia, pay compensation for all the damage it has inflicted, cancel all of the measures it has taken since its criminal attack on the Armed Forces of the USSR, and withdraw at once all tactical nuclear weapons from Europe. Only then will the USSR and the Fraternal Socialist Countries consider rescinding the measures they have taken in response. NATO's failure to do so can only have the gravest possible consequences. And the reactionary leaders in the West should know this: the patience of the Soviet Union and the Fraternal Socialist Countries is not unlimited."

Chernenenko then left the podium, and Marshal Sokolov spoke. He announced the call-up of reservists in European Russia, retention in service of those scheduled to be demobilized, and the cancellation of military leaves. All Soviet servicemen and -women were to report to their units, and Sokolov finished by calling on all members of the Soviet Armed Forces to "do their duty in defense of the Motherland."

Only after that did the Soviet TV feed stop, and CNN's anchor picked up his commentary. "Mother of God," Reagan said. "They really want it. They want a war."

"Yes, Sir," Secretary of State George Schultz said. "There's no doubt. We're going to war. The only question is when."

"Concur," Casey said at once.

"General," Reagan turned to Gen. John Vessey, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "How long to complete REFORGER?"

"Another week, sir. We're in Day Three right now."

Nodding, Reagan turned to Secretary Weinberger. "Two days ago you and General Vessey wanted DEFCON 3?"

"Yes, Mr. President," Weinberger said.

The President looked at his National Security Team. Heads nodded. "Do it. All U.S. Forces worldwide to DEFCON 3, immediately."

492nd Squadron Ready Room

RAF Lakenheath

Thursday, July 25th 1984

1235 GMT/1235 Local

Daria Morgandorffer had seen a lot of crazy in her short life, especially when her dad was involved. But Cherenenko in full rant had beat him all hollow. She was simply shocked this was a man with his finger on the nuclear trigger. Even on the ancient 70s TV in the aircrew ready room, all those present had to strain to hear the bombast, but the room had been as quiet as a tomb during the speech.

Many of the pilots in the ready room had shared her reaction, with a lot of gasps and "oh shits" punctuating the broadcast of the speech. At least one pilot said after the speech. "Guess it's "So long, Mom, we're off to drop the bomb."

"Um, Jane?"

"Yeah Dar-?"

"We're going to war, aren't we?"

The door crashed open with a loud bang and the cry of "Ten-HUT!" and the pilots and WSOs rose to attention with a crash of feet, and all conversation and other noise ceased as the operations officer, Major James Killenger, a balding man of 35, with a large stature and a slight scar down his hairline, a memento of his ejection from a burning F-4 over North Vietnam in 1971. He'd spent the two subsequent years as a "guest" of the North Vietnamese. He strode to the lecturn and then waved everyone back into their seats as he began.

"Ok people, here's what's going on? The base is being cleared for war. That's where all the married personnel are, putting their wives and kids on the outgoing '141s. They're also clearing the base hospital. My advice? Don't kid yourself about any chances for peace after that little speech. After the married folks get back, we're going to pass out your day one, strike one target folders. Expect to be told to move onto the base shortly, as word is USAFE is we will probably be locking down the base at any time in the next twenty four hours.."

This was met with a lot of groans and "goddamits!"

"AT EASE!" Major Killenger bellowed. "We're at the brink of war people, and that's not all. Aircrews and groundcrews not on Victor alert will be sleeping in their HASes. Furthermore, within the next twenty-four hours, all aircrews and groundcrew will be issued sidearms. You WILL be expected to wear them at all times."

"Shit." Daria muttered under her breath.

"This is the real deal, people. The Soviets are mobilizing faster and faster, and now their Premier has gone berserk on the world stage. We're sending the families home as fast as we can get them out of Britain and Germany, and the old hands have assured me we didn't do this in either '62 or '73. The Soviets are only going to see this one way. Best get used to the idea, now, I am going to hand this over to the squadron intelligence officer as he gets you reacquainted with the threat board for East Germany and Poland…."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – Quinn's Story

_158 West 75__th__ Street_

_Lobby of the Steadman Building_

_Friday, July 26__th__, 1985 _

1320 Local/1720 Zulu

Quinn Morgendorffer had seen a lot in her 24 years…or at least she thought she had. She'd never seen a major city in the throes of panic. New York City was in a collective nervous breakdown. As she waited on a cab to get her back to her apartment in Stuyversant Town, she took a breath and took it all in and wondered at a city in the grips of panic. A dusky skinned man ran by, a dark bag in his hands, he missed Quinn by inches and shouted out "Sorry miss!" as two cops in NYPD two tone blue were in hot pursuit, screaming "HALT! STOP! STOP OR WE SHOOT!" That last part jarred Quinn to the core. When did they start shooting robbery suspects?

Even at street level, she heard the sirens and smelled the smoke from uptown. Harlem and Bed-Stuy were burning. There had been riots since Chernenko's speech, mostly from people who were convinced it was all going to end "like in that TV show, the Day After, and their 'fill in the blank group' would be left to die." The NYPD had sent all it had north, with the FDNY right behind. Both had had their ranks thinned because of reservist call-ups. She'd heard rumors Governor Cuomo had begged President Reagan for use of the National Guard, but Reagan had refused, mainly due to the situation in Europe. There were also rumors of an impending curfew, of martial law being declared, and that there were Soviet commandos planning to hit Gracie Mansion or the tunnels. The rumor mills were running rife, and Quinn had heard them all. _God I hope Daria's ok? Listen to me? I'm hoping my big sister is alright. Well, if things really get fucked up, she's going to war, not me. My entire fault, really. Didn't get into FIT anyhow. But I did pretty well at Columbia._

This was partly why Quinn was standing outside her former workplace, the contents of her desk in a cardboard box and a letter of termination sticking out of the box. _Figures I lose my job because for the first time in my life, I do the right thing and stick up for my big sis..Oh well, I kinda hated that job anyhow…_

_4 hours earlier_

Quinn entered the offices of _Fierce_ magazine much as she had for the two years previously. She was dreading the day to come due to the fact that her boss, Mort Kauffman, a so-called "writer of young urban fashion" (a legend in his own mind, Quinn had often thought) and senior editor of the magazine, was planning on hosting a "dinner party for peace!" and expected his assistant, Quinn, to drop everything for a bunch of his superficial friends and coke addicted models to pretend they were somehow smarter than Regan and Chernenko while eating quiche.

Never mind Quinn and many of the staff were worried whether or not they would be here or part of the upper atmosphere from day to day at this point. None of that mattered to their superficial, idiot boss, who was still going on about his late trip to the Hamptons and how this "tiff" between the superpowers had everyone spooked for no good reason. Why, one of his wine and cheese parties and Reagan and Chernenko would be friends!

Or, at least Mort seemed to think so. "It's all the fault of those warmongers in the military, just like Vietnam," Mort would say. "We need a good protest by the youth, not those anti-nuclear fashion disasters, but some really good looking kids, something with some real kitsch!" The first time Mort said it, Quinn almost agreed with him, and then it hit her:

Daria and Jane were among those so-called "warmongers."

She knew them, she knew they didn't want a war, and they didn't want to die. She'd spoken to Daria over the phone last week. Looking forward to it was the last thing that could be said for Daria, or Jane. Daria's voice had been shaky, she was trying to stay brave for her sister, but she knew it was an act. Funny thing was? Daria's attempt made Quinn feel a bit braver too. For the first time ever? Quinn Morgendorffer was proud of her older sister, and woe to the SOB who felt otherwise.

_And I work for this ass that disparages my sister. Why do I put up with this schmuck again? Oh yeah, because I want a job in fashion journalism. What the hell is so damn important about that anyhow? God, he's like a male version of Stacy. Quinn Morgendorffer, it is time to put Fashion Club where the hell it belongs: The damn wastebasket. You've ghost written articles for this putz when he is coked out of his damn mind, and does he even give you a byline? No. There's a national emergency happening, and he's worried about his trip to the goddamned Hamptons and wants the peace movement back so bell-bottoms and long hair makes a comeback, not because we might get cooked alive!_

The thoughts made Quinn even madder than usual, and her gruff "hello" to the receptionist came out meaner than intended, not that the receptionist had much more going for her than "typing fast and running slow." Her neon-green hair and ever-present bubble gum didn't say much as to her situational awareness either. As Quinn made her way to her desk, she noticed Cynthia, her "girlfriend" and one of the junior photo editors was gone, and her desk suspiciously clean.

_Where the hell is Cynthia? Mort didn't fire her, did she? I'll duck into Glaydis's office and ask. _Glaydis was one of the assistant editors and hated Mort as much as Quinn did, and had a boy with the National Guard uptown who was due to ship out for Kentucky any day now. She had bigger things than whether or not Mort had some nutty fantasy going.

"Morning Glaydis? Where's Cynthia?"

Glaydis looked up from the stack of articles she'd been proofing, and bleeding all over with a red pen. Her brunette hair was clean, but disheveled, and her green eyes were bloodshot, like she'd been crying. She sniffed, and smiled a weak smile, for Quinn's benefit.

"Hi Quinn," she said in hushed tones. "Mort's gone nuts, I think he's high on something, which isn't new, but it's a hell of a time for that with the fall line issue due. Then again, there may not be a fall line if things keep going the way they are. Mort's not helping though. He fired Cynthia for having the nerve to take time off to get her kids to her parent's place in Maine."

Quinn's jaw dropped. "What? Why? She's just asking for some time to get her kids out of the bullseye!"

"I know that and so do you. But Mort just up and fired her for 'lack of dedication to the magazine.'" Glaydis replied, her fingers waggling for emphasis.

Quinn couldn't believe it. Here there was Armageddon staring them in the face and Mort was more worried about the magazine? Cynthia had three kids, was a single parent and the oldest of her kids was in the 4th grade. In short, she had a damn good reason wanting them the hell out of town and with her parents in Maine. But Mort fired her rather than do the right thing. _It's not like Fierce lacked for photo editors._

"What now? Do we soldier on till the bombs come? Do we quit, or do we just not bother coming in?" Quinn asked with a pleading tone in her voice. _I don't know what to do, I mean, nobody's telling us a thing right now, what do we do?_

Gladys gave a gallic shrug. "How in the hell do I know, Quinn? Me, I got no man, no kids at home, and a housecat for company, I've been a New Yorker all my life and I am over 40. Dearie, if the bombs come, I intend to have some Bordeaux with a side of sleeping pills. Same for the cat. My little Sammie isn't dying like that. Dearie? My advice? Finish out today and quit. Assuming the nukes don't come, you can use me as a reference. And, if they do come? Well, you can be the generation that rebuilds from our screwups, either way, right now? Who the hell needs fashion journalists at a time like this? I've seen your stuff Quinn, it's good, really good. Go find somewhere where it will do some good, not here where you can listen to the coked-up ravings of a crazy-ass moron."

"Why wait Gladys? I should type up my resignation and just put it on his desk now. I've got you as a reference, right?"

Gladys simply nodded, then got up and came from around her desk; arms wide and the same weak smile on her face.

"To better times, toots." Gladys whispered as she hugged Quinn. "When you talk to that crazy fighter pilot of a sister you have, tell her to stay safe for me, ok?" She pulled back from Quinn as she smiled a bit more genuinely. "And you, I don't want to see you until this thing is over, one way or the other. Might be a good time for you to see your family. Aren't they 30 miles or so from Baltimore?"

Quinn nodded, but realized if Aberdeen Proving Ground or Fort Meade got hit, it might not make much of a difference.

It was at that moment that Quinn's reverie was broken by the nasaly, high-pitched voice that was, to most, like fingernails on a chalkboard, the fact that it was slurring and it took a few moment's to realize that someone was calling her name, and that someone happened to be her boss was equally troubling. _God Mort, I know it may seem like the damn world's coming to an end, and it may very well be, but really, you have to be coked out of your mind during working hours? Shit, might as well get the day formally started._

Quinn and Gladys shared a knowing look and Quinn turned to leave, walking briskly towards Mort's office down the hall. Mort was still bellowing for her, although the bellowing sounded more like the bleating of a sick calf.

"Quinn, goddamit, where are you?" the voice bellowed from behind the door.

"Coming, Mr. Kauffman." Quinn said, her teeth gone past gritting and right onto grinding.

She entered Mort's office, which had a decent view of the southern Manhattan skyline, and right into lower New York harbor. The rest of the office's décor could best be described as "bad 70's porn film meets Andy Warhol."

Quinn could see a lot more ship traffic than was normal out Mort's window, a lot of it painted haze-grey rather than the standard mélange of merchant and local livery. _What the hell is going on in the harbor? _

"Hey, red? Focus, I pay you to make me look good and smart!" Mort said, inches from her face, his alcohol breath wafting over Quinn and making her eyes water. "It's just those idiots in the Navy again, probably blowing the hell out of a whale!"

Quinn began to see red, _I hate that nickname, and I hate that he's usually blasted out of his mind when he says it. _

Mort then smiled and leaned back into his pleather office chair. He was wearing a fur lined sportcoat in the middle of July, and had glasses you could see yourself clearly in, not to mention the purple bell-bottoms and the ruffled shirt. It was all a sad testament to the fact Mort had not gotten with the times. He was stuck in the 70s where he _ruled _the Garment District and he didn't let a soul forget it. His hairline had rapidly receded, and the rug he called a toupee was barely covering the fact up. Completing the unattractive picture was his sweaty, meaty hands and his oversized gut. No, Mort Kauffman was a testament not just to a has-been but a never would be.

"Quinn. I need you to clear my calendar for today, call 'Tessa and call Studio 54 and get my usual table," Mort said with a bit of a toothy grin. "By the way, something that's occurred to me, Quinn."

_Uh-oh. _"And that is?" Quinn replied, the bile rising in her throat as she spoke.

"Every woman in this office I have had the pleasure of breaking in, shall we say. Not you. And hey, why not we make the two-backed monster while we can, before Ivan blows us to hell? Maybe we can even do some lines off of each other, to heighten the experience? Hmm?" Mort said, a greasy smile breaking the monotony of his face.

Quinn turned red at the suggestion. First, out of embarrassment. She wasn't the girl who led boys around by their emotions any more. She was a new, professional Quinn who took this demeaning job to get her big break in this town…and now this clown suggested she screw him because it was the apocalypse? _No Mort, not even if you are the last man on Earth, god forbid._

Mort, much to Quinn's chagrin, didn't wait for an answer, and lept over the desk with an agility that Quinn didn't suspect he still had. Quinn, out of sheer surprise, stepped back and screamed. Quinn's actions caused Mort to misjudge the distance, and thus he fell short, banging his head on the floor of his office, which, while carpeted, was still hard enough to draw blood, thus slurring his voice even more prominently.

"YOU TURN ME DOWN! YOU, YOU NO TALENT ASSISTANT WHO COULDN'T GET WORK AT THE VILLAGE VOICE TURNED ME DOWN!" roared Mort.

Quinn trembled a bit at first, she was worried about keeping her job, but she soon realized, _Why the hell do I have to take this? He's just a coked out jerk. No, it's time I told him to go to hell. _

"Mort, with all due respect, and that means absolutely none." Quinn said in an icy tone,  
"Screw you. I don't sleep with men whose equipment is made by ERTL. You know, just like the real thing, only smaller? And Mort? I. Don't. Need. You. I quit. You understand? I quit! If the nukes are coming? I want to die with my family. Not with a coke addicted narcissistic asshole! Oh, and one more thing Mort? The military you like to make jokes about so much? One of those people is my sister. She's in England, waiting for what comes next. I've been a shitty sister to her, at one point pretending she wasn't even my kin. But that changes, today! She'd have simply kicked your ass. I guess I am going to settle for telling you off. Bye Mort."

Quinn then turned on her heel, opened the door, and walked out, slamming the door as hard as she could behind her. What came next was a massive surprise.

She came out to applause. All 20 or so staff members of _Fierce_ were there and they were clapping with yells of "Alright" and "Way to go Quinn!"

Glayds ran over and hugged her. "Quinn honey, let's you, me and some of the girls go take a long brunch. On his dime! Creep!" Gladys shouted the last in the direction of Mort's office.

Quinn looked at her quizzically.

"Dearie, Mel in accounting controls all the petty cash, and she's been waiting for a moment like this for eight years!"

Quinn nodded in understanding, then she threw back her head and laughed. _What the hell? Things are insane enough already!_

The present

Quinn listened to the music of a city in the depths of apocalyptic panic. "Gee, the President calls for calm, and half the city thinks: 'Ok, let's panic! Somebody needs to pass the memo on what calm means '" she muttered under her breath.

On a good day it was tough trying to get a cab at the corner of her building, but today, it was as if half of New York's cabbies had called in sick, then again, so had a lot of other folks, the press was calling it the "nuke flu." Quinn shook her head, perhaps it was time to head south to her place on East 20th Street on foot, happily, all the danger was uptown, and most of the muggers were probably preoccupied with getting out of the Big Apple before the Russians caramelized it.

She sighed, and looked down at the Minolos she wore, _They're my faves, but fact is, they won't hold up under a 30 block walk…and let's face it, what the hell can I trade them for at a time like this, can't eat them, and they won't get you out of town. Plus, they're a gift from Mort…_Quinn shuddered at that last thought. Half of her current professional wardrobe was gifts from Mort. She resolved to leave it behind, considering NYC probably would be a heap of rubble before too long, what was the point of taking such impractical crap with her?

Quinn quickly went through her box, grabbing a six-pack of Tab and tossing it in her oversized purse. _It ought to have some heft to club the crap out of a mugger anyhow now, learned that from that stupid prison movie my ex made me watch. Then again, there was something fishy about him. The good ones, they're always married or gay. _Quinn shrugged as she rifled through her bag, throwing her office supplies and useless knickknacks back into the bag, and retaining only an extra set of hose, some handkerchiefs and a spare blouse, along with the aforementioned Tab, and a roll of subway tokens just in case she did manage to get to a station or find a southbound bus, the rest was put back into the box, and unceremoniously dumped into the wastebasket at the corner.

Quinn then smiled and rubbed her hands together, washing her hands of the past, and she mentally figured she could make it home by about 3 or 4. After that, pack what she could into one suitcase, and call a cab, negotiate a fare to get her across the river to Newark and catch a plane or train to Baltimore Penn Station or BWI, and rent a car home from there. _That's of course hoping the authorities haven't limited all travel, or that there's even seats available. _Quinn felt the nervous bile rising as she set out south, _One step at a time Morgendorffer, One step at a-_

It was then that Quinn's reverie was disrupted by a very loud horn, one that could only come from one of the older Checker cabs…and sure enough, one block away, off to the Quinn's right, was a Checker cab, with a very animated gentleman, his distinctive yellow hat perched on a head full of grey hair, and his glasses taking up much of his face, waving furiously at Quinn, as he hit the horn again!

"Hey Lady!" he screamed, "Get off the streets! Somebody will mug you or worse in times like these!" His accent was pure gravelly New York, and could only belong to somebody who'd been a hack all his life.

Quinn was bewildered, she pointed to herself in the classic "Who me?" gesture.

"Yeah you!" he replied. "Get in the cab before something happens to you!"

Quinn shrugged, then ran across the nearly empty intersection to 5th Avenue and got into the cab. A white and brown patch of living fur that purred contentedly immediately assaulted her and jumped in her lap.

The cabbie noticed Quinn's shock at being assaulted by the cat. "Oh crap, I'm sorry, that's Baron, he means well, he just forgets not everybody wants 20lbs of purring cat in their lap as a way of saying hello, then again, if he does that, it means he likes you. And Baron is an excellent judge of character." The driver wasted little time in pulling away from the curb and making his way in the direction of the West Side Highway.

Quinn smiled as she absentmindedly stroked Baron's fur behind the ear, to which Baron responded by purring even louder. "Yeah, he really likes you. Anyhow, my name is Murray Cohen. Been a cabbie for almost 40 years since the war ended. And god willing, there's gonna be a New York to come back to so I can drive for another ten or twenty years. But right now, I am getting the hell out of here. If it's the end, lady? I am going to meet it with my daughter and her family in Maryland."

Quinn's eyes lit up with joy at the good news in front of her. "Um, Mr. Cohen, I hate to ask, but where in Maryland are you headed?"

"What's it to ya?"

"I got family near Baltimore. I can pay!"

"Oh, well then in that case, guess I lucked out. We can work out a fare when we get down there; you got an apartment near here? Someplace you might wanna pack a few things?"

"I'm down on East 20th Street, 620 to be exact."

"Oh Thank God! I thought you were going to say some artsy fartsy place north of Harlem. I ain't going up there today."

"This is gonna sound silly, but can we even get out of New York?" Quinn asked

"We'll manage. The trick is, when we get to your place, you gotta pack fast, no more than two suitcases. We'll put em up front with me. As for getting out, we can roll the dice with the tunnels, it might be our best bet. Just so you know, we're not stopping for food till we get to Jersey. And if something happens, and I don't usually tell passengers this..but I got a .38 in the glovebox with a dozen extra shells."

Quinn's jaw dropped "Why are you telling me?"

"You're a nice lady, and there's been some real animals running around on the streets the last couple of days…a lot of cops are getting recalled into the Army."

"Shit. It's really hit the fan, huh? Quinn asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"Yeah, it has, young lady. And I know you're a member of the tribe, like me, and I am not leaving a fellow Jew to die here if I can help it. My Rachel, God Rest her Soul, would kick my ass if I did. You got any family in the military?"

"My Sister, she's a fighter pilot."

"No kidding, my son's some sort of intelligence guy in the army. Haven't heard a damn thing from him in the last two days. You hear a thing from your sister?"

Quinn shook her head vigorously no.

"Was afraid of that, when I was in the Army, they'd hold up the mail when something big was up. Lady, I think we're going to war, and I think those in the know are pretty convinced of it. Speaking of which, you mind if I put on the news?"

"Go ahead, doubt much has changed…"

"True, but it doesn't hurt." Murray offered.

The old radio went on with an audible click and came to life immediately.

"_1010 WINS NEWSHOUR, The time is 1:20 and we'll give you the world! Our top story is the deteriorating situation between the superpowers." We go now to our Chief Washington Correspondent Bob Schaeffer, _

"_Good evening, Katie, In the morning press briefing at the White House, Spokesman Larry Speaks denied any rumors that the United States and NATO had forsworn further negotiation with the Soviet Union or the Warsaw Pact during today's Press Briefing:"_

'_The President has said, and we will reiterate, we are willing to negotiate, anytime, anywhere. But we cannot simply accept the terms laid out by the Soviets during the General Secretary's speech. Accepting those terms would be tantamount to the surrender of NATO and the free world.'_

"_Further comments by unnamed Pentagon and White House officials have stated little hope for a diplomatic solution, noting increasing signs that the Soviets have begun total mobilization of their armed forces, and while some hope this is simply brinkmanship, many are not very confident that this can be resolved short of armed conflict. Back to you in New York, Katie."_

"_We go now to CBS's Special Correspondent, Bob Simon, who is currently, somewhere in Germany"_

"_We've been asked not to mention where we are, as preparations for war are going on unabated here and nobody here wants to give Soviet intelligence any favors. I took a ride to the border with NATO troops, I can't say with whom exactly. They are backing up the West German border troops currently, and the feeling here is that war is pretty much inevitable, and more than one soldier here is feeling as if they'd rather get it over with than waiting, and worrying. One West German border police officer sticks out in my mind, when I asked him what would he do if and when the Russians came. He told me, 'Make their lives as miserable as we can.' He told me further that he hadn't seen any Russians, but he'd heard tank engines and helicopters across the border at night, and that his East German counterparts were taking up the border minefields. According to many I have spoken to, it's a sure sign that the Russians are coming. Back to you, Katie." _

"_In local news tonight, there is both calm and panic as the news becomes seemingly more grim by the hour, as just about every house of worship in town is full, with many parishioners praying for peace. The riots in Bedford-Stuyversant and Harlem continue tonight, with appeals for calm from the mayor and governor falling on deaf ears. Other protests have broken out at the UN and the headquarters of the Communist Party of the United States on 25__th__ Street in the wake of an FBI raid. Almost all routes out of town are gridlocked, with traffic moving very slowly, officials are calling for patience, and stating that if matters continue, they will implement a system rationing travel outside the city."_

"_I want people to know the NYPD is doing all it can in this moment of crisis to help the citizens we protect. We have to do the job with a third of the officers we'd usually have, as many of my officers were reservists and they have been called up. We need you, the citizen, to stay calm, stay home except when necessary, and don't pass rumors. One of those rumors started the riot in Bed-Stuy right now. We're New Yorkers, we're better than this."_

"_That was NYPD Commissioner Ben Ward at the Mayor's press conference this morning. We'll stay with the top story 24 hours a day to keep you informed during this time of crisis. This is 1010 WINS, we're now taking a break for station identification…"_

Quinn looked out the window as the cab made its way down the grey streets, the sky darkening as a portent of a summer thunderstorm, but also as a foreshadow of what was coming.

"Whole city's gone nuts, Well, At least those communists can't slink off in the middle of the night. Serves the bastards right." Murray intoned. "I remember listening to the radio and remembering how it sounded the last time."

"Was it anything like this?"

"This time is worse, I didn't grow up under the threat of being annihilated."

Neither said a word to the other till they got to Quinn's apartment on 20th Street. Only Baron's purring and the hard taps of a summer thunderstorm filled the taxi.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_US Mission, Berlin_

_CIA Deputy Station Chief's Office_

_West Berlin_

_August 2__nd__, 1985_

_0730 Local/0530 ZULU_

Harrison Grey had had a lot of crappy duties to perform in his three years as part of US Mission Berlin (often called USBER), but this took the cake. Things had been tense in West Berlin as the superpowers seemed to inexorably slide towards war, the East German border guards at the Wall were a lot less friendly to him, and he'd gotten roughed up a few times, even with his diplomatic cover credentials.

The other intel the other assets in the Berlin area had developed was frightening. The US Military Liaison Mission or USMLM had reported the movement of 20-30 trainloads of Soviet troops overnight through the Berlin area, as well as the movement of large numbers of East German Volkspolizei or VoPo and Battalions of the Working Class units moving closer to the Wall from all directions. The land corridors had been cut last night, and word was, the air corridors were probably going to be cut this morning.

Yesterday's news about a Navy EP-3 being shot down 100 miles north of Kola by Soviet fighters and a West German Atlantique being gunned down by a MiG-23 over the Baltic hadn't improved the overall mood either. And now, somebody, probably the East Germans, were performing low-level recon flights over West Berlin seemingly every few hours, low enough that the West Berlin police were getting some fierce complaints about more than a few broken windows. Finally, in the last six hours, the ABC news people in Berlin had confided in him that none of the news services had heard from any of their Eastern bloc based reporters for the last day and a half. _Christ, they know what kind of intelligence indicators these all signify. They wouldn't do this unless…unless they were serious. _

The East Germans, however, had pulled a new stunt in the last two hours that pretty much made up Langley's mind about it being time to get out of the pool. The trouble was, in Harrison's mind, who the hell was going to convince Amy Barksdale of this?

Meanwhile, Amy was simply concentrating on getting a few Z's. She had been running nonstop on coffee and nerves for the last 36 hours trying to get a coherent picture of what the hell was going on in Berlin. Her boss had simply vanished after getting word a high-ranking East German official had wanted to defect, the source was a local, who had provided good product in the past, and the fellow had been careful, and worked for money, rather than ideology, which all was good signs. Trouble was, Arthur had been gone for 12 hours now, and Amy's fitful sleep was a sign she was beginning to worry. It wasn't like Arthur not to check in, not after that long in the East.

She was just beginning to fall asleep when…there was an insistent knock at the door. _Damn, just as I was getting some damn sleep. Turning 50 last month sucks. Why did I put in for Berlin? I could have taken that middle management training position back at Langley, but nooo, I had to go back to Berlin. I had to prove I still had it. Shit._

"ENTER!" Amy barked, the lack of sleep making it sound a lot meaner than she intended, as she vigorously rubbed the sleep from her eyes, while suppressing a yawn, and failing as it escaped in a muffled form.

Grey entered the office with a yellow message flimsy stamped multiple times FLASH in red. Such messages rarely failed to be important, nor were they ever good news. Amy shook her head, and wordlessly took the message flimsy from Grey. The message was short, and to the point, but said all it really needed to say:

FROM: LANGLEY CENTER

_TO; CHIEF OF AGENCY MISSION, USBER_

_SUBJ; SECOND KNIGHT_

_UPON RECIEPT THIS MESSAGE, YOU ARE TO HEREBY EXECUTE SECOND KNIGHT NLT 1300 YOUR TIME TODAY. INTELLIGENCE HERE SUGGESTS WP INVASION FRG WILL COMMENCE SOMETIME IN THE NEXT 48-72 HOURS. ACK THIS MESSAGE IMMEDIATELY UPON RECIEPT. _

Amy looked up in horror. "This for real? You know what this means, right?"

Grey nodded. "Yeah, I do. We ran it through the decoder twice, and asked for confirmation. It's real."

SECOND KNIGHT's orders were simple, destroy all documents and sensitive equipment both in the CIA station, and as part of USBER, and then evacuate all CIA and State Department personnel from USBER via Gatow Airfield and report to Bonn for further orders. Some, the Special Activities Division paramilitaries, had their own orders, which even Amy didn't know, but they'd disappeared three days ago in some "sterile" Trabants with very heavy suitcases for parts unknown. _Probably full of money and guns, but damned if I really want to know. _

"There's more boss. Arthur got grabbed last night, all went down around 11:30 or so. The defector wasn't legit. One of my sources in the West Berlin Police said they saw half a dozen guys, Stasi from the looks of them. Well it looks like they grabbed him from a café on the west side of the Fredrichstrasse, maybe, three or four hundred meters from Checkpoint Charlie. They shot their way past the checkpoint with the East German border guards providing cover for the whole damn thing."

Amy couldn't believe it. The Stasi never did that. Grabbing people on the wrong side of the Wall was a good way to start a really nasty incident. But that wouldn't matter if the Soviets had already made the decision that the Warsaw Pact was going to war. And, they'd already had Arthur for two hours. _At the end of six, we've got to assume he's spilled his guts. Who'd blame him really? _She exhaled in frustration. There was only one reason to grab Arthur, war was coming, and they needed to know 1) Where in the building was the CIA offices so they could grab the intel first? 2) Who were the others they wanted to roll up in the East? 3) Who were the Americans they wanted to grab? _It's time to go, Barksdale. Long past time._

"Grey, get the folks in the message center started on smashing the crypto machines and pull the extra shredder from storage, we'll need a bigger burn area, so grab a couple of the wheeled trash bins..and make sure we do a solid job. I don't want a shred of paper left for those Stasi bastards."

Grey nodded in understanding "And you?"

"I am going to put the recall order out to our boys and girls in the field, as well as our local assets, before they get rolled by the Stasi, assuming they get the message in time. After that, I am then going to do some therapeutic sledge hammering downstairs to help out the State Department guys with _their _crypto gear. By the way, isn't it your birthday today, Grey?"

Harrison nodded, "Some birthday gift, huh?"

"We're alive, and we're going to stay that way, Mr. Grey. Now, get the hell going, sooner we get this done, sooner we are on our way. Your go bag packed?"

"You know it is."

"Good, now scram!" Amy barked

As Grey ran out of the office, slamming the door behind him and raising a ruckus as he ran down to the crypto room, making sure everyone in the six person station knew to enact their portion of the destruction bill, Amy looked wistfully around at her office, full of mementos of a life of secrets and quiet service to her country. _Crap, some Stasi or KGB jerk's going to take this all as a frigging trophy, ah hell can't be helped. We've got just enough time to smash and burn the important stuff!_ She did spy her prized "Caraville Hotel-Welcome to the Saigon Bar" emblazoned coaster…_Screw you Ivan, you don't get that! _She paused, and grabbed the small cork square, stuffing it awkwardly into a back pocket.

Amy shook her head as she reached into a side closet and fished out a 12lb sledge hammer, then turned to her left and made he way down the hall, shaking her head and hoping against hope Langley's timetable was close to right. _Yeah, they really got it right in Iran, didn't they?_

* * *

_Hotel Mercure Wien Westbahnhof_

_Vienna, Austria_

_August 2__nd__, 1985_

_0825 Local/0625 ZULU_

Brittany Taylor was rather pleased with herself. She'd gotten pretty good grades for the first time in her life, while at Great Prairie State, she'd actually applied herself, and found that she had a talent for Sports Medicine of all things, and had graduated there with a 3.35 GPA, which had led her into pursing her Masters in the subject at USC. It had been a tough two years, but she'd managed to graduate with a 3.15 and a job as an assistant trainer with the Lakers Cheerleaders, of all things. Since she wasn't due to start for a few months, she'd turned to her housemates, whom had also graduated USC and had said, "Let's hike through Europe!"

The plan, of course, was modified a bit, hike through Italy, into Austria, and then take a Danube cruise into Germany and a flight home. One of the conditions of the trip? No listening to the news, something that had driven Allison, a small, perky girl of Italian extraction who had a job on the Hill waiting for her when they got back. She was the poly sci major and news junkie and the rule had driven her to absolute distraction. _They were here to get away from it all, weren't they? Not obsess over something happening so far away, right?_

Brittany had come downstairs to avail herself of the free continental breakfast bar in the dining room. Her roommates were still fast asleep, as they had checked into the hotel darn near close to midnight. _Early bird gets something, right? Wasn't it a worm or something?..Jeez who the hell wants a worm? They're like gross! Now if they have cappuccinos like what we got in Italy? Now that's what mama needs right now. _

Brittany walked on through the quiet hotel lobby towards the dining room, making as grand an entrance as an American girl, newly liberated from grad student status could afford to make, and then it hit her. There was practically nobody in the dining room, just an elderly hotel employee and a rather rotund, balding gentleman who was picking like a bird at his eggs benedict.

_What in the world is going on? There's no line, no screaming kids. I should be fighting to get a plate like that place in Milan? Where are all the tourists? _At that moment, a feeling like a cool breeze went up Brittany's spine, and she shuddered involuntarily. Something wasn't normal. Her friends were due to be down in 20 minutes, so she figured she'd grab an empty table and load up on breakfast rolls and a bit of coffee in the meanwhile and take in the Viennese ambiance, though she wasn't too sure what in the world was so great about that.

As she sat down, she smiled and made herself comfortable, flagging down a waiter and placing an order for scrambled eggs and coffee (to which the waiter almost rolled his eyes at how American it was) with the help of an English-German phrase book. Her accent was atrocious and it made it plainly obvious that she was an American. He told her in very good English that the kitchen was understaffed and it would take 10 minutes to fill her order, and inquired if she was checking out today?

"Why in the world we be checking out today, sir? We just got here." Brittany inquired.

The waiter turned a shade of deathly pale, and snapped his fingers to get the attention of the older hotel employee dining on some porridge two tables over. This also got the attention of the balding gentleman as well, who suddenly looked up with the rapidity of a prairie dog.

The elderly gentleman rose, and made his way far more quickly than his apparent age would have suggested. When he arrived he grabbed the waiter by the arm and a very animated discussion between the two in rapid-fire German ensued. Brittany was so captivated by what was going on, she missed the arrival of her friends in their pajamas and slippers; _Did I do something that's going to get this fellow fired? Uh-Oh. _The older gent also brushed himself off, and made his way into the conversation, as well, and soon all three were speaking very rapid-fire German, with the balding fellow being very insistent and pointing right at Brittany and her friends: _Great, he hates Americans._

Finally, the participants of the conversation all turned to look at Brittany and her two friends, Michelle, who was a sports medicine major like Brittany, and Allison. The balding gentleman spoke first, "Excuse me," he said, with a Bostonian accent "You three girls wouldn't happen to be Americans, would you?"

"Um, yes," Allison answered, while glaring at Brittany "Um, did Brittany do something to offend you, sir? We're willing to-"

The balding gentleman laughed, shook his head and muttered "There's always someone who doesn't get the word." He then looked at the girls again. "Ladies, my name is James Lettinger, and I work for the US Embassy here in Vienna, and you are all damn lucky I like this hotel's breakfast spread. Right now, Europe is on the edge of war and you people were ordered out days ago."

The girls looked at each other in shock, and all exploded with questions at once.

"Wait a sec, war?"

"You gotta be kidding-"

"How come we didn't hear a thing about this?"

Lettinger raised his hands and whistled, loud to bring some order to the chaos. "Ladies, I understand you have a ton of questions, but we don't have much time. Right now, there's probably a quarter-million Soviet and Hungarian troops right across the border, which incidentally is about fifty kilometers from here. Say, an hour's drive in real terms. And if and when it starts, we're already in range of their artillery. This will not be a safe place to be."

Brittany looked Lettinger in the eyes; history and political science were not her strong suits. Ask her to tape a knee; sure, she could handle that. But this? "Um, Mr. Lettinger, we'd still be safe here, I mean, we're Americans, right?"

Allison and Michelle replied to the question with mutual forehead slaps and groans.

Lettinger exhaled, and looked at the elderly hotel worker with a pleading look, who spoke excellent, if accented English.

"Ms. Taylor, I am Egon, the night manager here, I would not place much faith in that fact, First, your nation and the Soviets will be at war if that occurs, and Austria is going to be invaded simply because she is in the way. The last time, during the last war, when the Red Army came to Vienna, I was an _Oberleutnant_ in the _Wehrmacht, _we resisted as long as we could, but when we surrendered, it was a damn ugly sight. I won't mince words, ladies. They killed people for no other reason than they wanted something; they raped girls and women from 8 to 80 and not just in groups of one or two, but in bands of at least 8-10 at a time. Each of you, as lovely as you are, would have an entire Soviet platoon to "entertain."

Brittany's stomach soon somersaulted at the very idea of being potentially raped by the Red Army, and her friends did not particularly love the idea either. Allison spoke up next. "Ok, we get it, war is coming and it's time to go. We can be packed in twenty minutes, but where in the hell are we going?"

Lettinger smiled "That I can help you with, Vienna's grounded all flights, and the river traffic north along the Danube's being heavily screened, but the last train to Geneva's leaving the train station here in a couple of hours. And yes, I will get you three on it. I do work for the State Department. Along with a letter of introduction to our embassy in Switzerland, you guys should be alright for the duration."

That seemed to calm down the trio, but Michelle asked Egon. "What will you do, Sir."

"Once you leave, dear _Fraulein, _we are closing the hotel, not many employees left, most of them have been called up into the Army, and the guests have all left. So, I shall help close the hotel. Then, I am getting my old shotgun and wait here for the Russians. This time I do not intend to be a guest of the Soviet Union, 5 years in Siberia was bad enough."

Egon snapped his fingers again to break the spell, "Meanwhile, ladies, let's get you upstairs and pack, and don't worry about the condition of the room. I doubt anyone's going to be here to give it much thought for a time to come."

As they all rose to get the girls on the train, a sound, not unlike thunder built in intensity from the south..it became a rising crescendo that swayed the chandeliers and made the wine glasses rattle as it became closer. The thunder soon gave way to an animal-like scream, as the unmistakable sound of a jet engine, from an aircraft that had to be very low, roared over the hotel and broke several of the glasses and caused at least one chandelier in the dining room to actually fall.

Allison ran out through the lobby, running outside into the street entrance of the hotel, the aircraft had by then, circled around for another run. This time it came head on towards the hotel, passing three hundred or so feet over Allison's head as she stood transfixed in the entryway. _Oh My God, this is really happening. _She ran inside, and grabbed her friends roughly towards the stairs. "No time guys, we need to leave, now."

Brittany was nonplussed "Why, what did you see? Allison, stop spazzing and tell me what you saw?"

"The airplane, it had red stars on the damn wings…it had red stars."

Egon nodded "Reconnaissance flight most likely. This is just the preliminaries, you do not want to be here for the main event, ladies."

_Four Hours Later_

The trio had found little problem booking tickets to Geneva, it was the only open destination for trains leaving Vienna, and there were few foreigners left taking up seats on anything leaving anyhow. As it was, they were the last people buying tickets on the last train out. It was, suffice to say, quite dramatic.

"Brittany, next time you say 'no paying attention to the news on vacation!' I am gonna kill you." Allison complained.

"No shit, Brit, we're about to be in a war zone, if we don't get to Geneva!" Michelle added.

They entered their compartment and put their bags up, finding themselves in the typical European rail compartment, with an older couple already having made themselves comfortable. One could not help but overhear their conversation.

"Oh Georgine, why does this always happen to us when we go abroad?" the gentleman said in a distinctive Canadian accent?

"Alfie, we just have bad luck, I mean, you took that sales job in '75 in Beiruit, and we weren't in the country a year before we had to run like hell, same with Tehran in '79. Then there was our Caribbean vacation in Grenada two years ago. And now this, our retirement gift, I must say, we're just cursed with bad luck."

The girls listened in shock at the litany of this couple's close shaves. "Um, excuse me mam," Allison ventured, "You say you were in Lebanon in '75, Iran in '79 and Grenada two years ago?"

The couple looked at each other and laughed, then Alfred replied, "Oh yes young lady, those American Marines are so nice, I'd say for a war breaking out, we had a lovely vacation! Much better than the brochures said! And now, there is this for a retirement present? I tell you, Georgine and I are just feeling alive with excitement!"

All three of the girls looked at each other in shock, _Oh dear god, we're fleeing a potential Soviet invasion with a pair of certifiable lunatics._

* * *

_492__nd__ Tactical Fighter Squadron Ready Room_

_RAF Lakenheath_

_Lakenheath, England_

_August 2__nd__ 1985_

_1437 Local/1437 ZULU_

Daria and Jane had been sequestered onto the base since the 30th of July, along with all the other flight crews and just about everybody else. They'd also sealed off the base to just about everyone, and a incident where an RAF Regiment member had shot an overeager peace protester who had been attempting to break through the fence had made that point all too well.

_Jesus, _Daria's mind reported _is this really happening? _Thus far, there had been little to do by fly occasional training sorties, catch up on paperwork, memorize their target folders, and wait.

It was the waiting that was the worst. It allowed the mind to keep playing scenarios that could happen. Would they get off the ground? Would it go nuclear from the start? Would they even manage to get to the target? There were too many variables…and too much time to consider them. And all of them were Daria's responsibility as aircraft commander. All Jane had to do was know the steers to the target, the radar images, and what the bombing tables were. Daria had a lot more, what routes to take, and when? What were the defenses; both on the ingress and egress? And how alert was the target going to be? _Shit, this is going to make all the stories the old-timers told us about Hanoi look like a damn picnic. _

The TV had been on constantly, with the sound on low, but the words "ABC SPECIAL REPORT" flashed onto the screen on a black background. Somebody lunged for the TV; nobody had to scream, "Turn it up." As the news had gotten worse, the raucous atmosphere usually found in the squadron ready room had vanished faster than squirrels in the face of winter.

"_Hello, this is Peter Jennings in New York, and we've got unconfirmed word that the Soviet delegation to what are some are calling "last ditch" talks in Geneva between Soviet Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko and US Secretary of State George Schultz has walked out. I repeat, there is unconfirmed word that the Soviet delegation has walked out of the talks…Wait, I am getting word we are going live to a press conference being held by Secretary of State Schultz."_

_The screen quickly shifted to a view of an empty podium, where a face well known to just about everyone who followed politics soon strode to and adjusted the microphoneslightly. Schultz's forehead was a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were downcast, like a child who had just committed an unforgivable sin. The klieg lights made his drawn features look even moreso. He took a deep breath, "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have a short statement to make, I will not be accepting any questions afterwards, as I must immediately depart for Washington."_

"_I and my staff had come, with the hopes of the United States, and the Free World, to Geneva to see if, even if at this late hour, could somehow pull the dove of peace from the bloody jaws of war. I regret to report that this effort has failed. It has failed ladies and gentlemen, due to the singular intransigence and obstinacy of the Soviet Government, as personified by the Soviet Foreign Minister."_

_Schultz paused, took a drink of water, and then continued. "I came to Geneva, prepared to talk frankly, behind closed doors where we could both discuss a wide range of issues in a quiet and secluded environment. I came with no accusations, and no preconceptions. The Soviets, however, did not. Instead, I was treated to a twenty-minute tirade from the Mr. Gromyko over every perceived and actual failing of US foreign policy from the last 40 years. This then culminated with a series of demands that you are all familiar with, they are the same demands that the Soviets have repeatedly made in the wake of the General Secretary's speech of a week ago. The US position on those demands is well known, and I will not reiterate it here, except to say this; we will not repeat the mistakes of Munich."_

"_After I informed the Foreign Minister of this, and the stance of the US and her allies, he proceeded to refer to the President with a few words I won't repeat here, as well as to insult me personally, then he turned and walked out, his delegation right behind him. I do not know if the Foreign Minister has left Geneva, but we have been informed through a third party that there is no intention on the part of the Soviets to restart the talks. Therefore, I have felt it best to return to Washington. I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I have failed you and I wish I could say we managed to secure peace at a late hour. I cannot say that. What I will say is this. Sometimes, peace is tantamount to surrender. The peace that was demanded of me by the Soviet Foreign Minister was just that. It is not a peace that neither the United States, nor her NATO allies will ever agree to. I implore the Soviet Union and her Warsaw Pact allies to back away from the abyss, to reconsider the actions they are committing themselves to, and to come back to the table. Even now, it is not too late and we are willing to talk, frankly, honestly and earnestly. This concludes my remarks, thank you ladies and gentlemen."_

The squadron ready room was as quiet as a pin. Daria and Jane looked at each other, the looks in their eyes said it, but Jane was the first to verbalize it.

"Game time."


End file.
